The Binding
by nuhuh
Summary: Time Travel. Harry Potter is dead, murdered by the wand of Voldemort. Dumbledore commits his most loyal follower McGonagall to initiate his contingency plan for Harry's failure. It costs the woman her soul and puts Harry on the path of the forsaken.
1. Chapter 1

**1**

_**The Debt**_

Poppy Pomfrey entered the make-shift personal quarters of Minerva McGonagall looking for her old colleague. She found her sitting in one of the guest chairs, an amber drink in her hand. Her gray hair fell to her back in disarray, no longer in the stern bun it always was. If it were any other time Poppy would have been concerned but now, when it felt like only cold blood ran through her numb body, she took this as another sign of the end.

"Miss Granger is dead," Poppy announced to the bent back and sat down next to Minerva, looking unseeingly at the worn wall opposite just as her friend was.

"Smart girl, she tricked me and went off her potions..."

"It is not surprising!" Minerva spoke with a calm voice, as it always was. Somehow believing if only she did not show her despair she could save others from their own fear. "After all, Harry and she married to have something to live for...after young Mr. Weasley and Miss Weasley were killed and now..."

"Now that her husband has fallen as well...she did not have the strength to go on. Even though she loved young Mr. Weasley, she was devoted to Mr. Potter..." Poppy continued for her friend.

"And Mr. Potter was devoted to her...such special children they all were. I was surprised when they married so soon after young Ronald died. But I understand what it's like to feel alone and desperate. Strange that Harry came to me for blessing. Poppy, Hermione was not with child?" Minerva suddenly asked worried. In the last war such a tragedy had befallen young couples on the side of the light. She still remembered grieving for one of her young lions who had lost his wife and unborn child at the hands of Deatheaters.

"No...I don't think they were ever intimate." Poppy shrugged putting her elbows on her knees and cradling her chin in her hand.

"They were married for near half a year!" Minerva protested feeling silly that she was concerned about this. Poppy nodded a sad smile on her face.

"I think, Minerva, it is like you said: they needed each other to hold on to after they lost young Ronald and Ginevra. That is why they married...perhaps the other marital relations were simply not as important," Poppy explained. "That dear boy had the world on his shoulders and this once he could not do it. What will become of us Minerva? We've been run out of Hogwarts! It won't be long before we are found!"

Minerva McGonagall wiped her face with her free hand and blinked a few times trying to get the weariness out of her eyes. She wanted to answer her friend truthfully but the secret she held was so dark and so damming she could not condemn her as she had been condemned.

The week of disbelief and pain that had passed since Harry Potter's death was compounded twice by her old mentor calling in her many debts to him. Mentally she cursed the portrait that had appeared in her chambers and inside she screamed at the injustice. Poppy saw the flickering emotions on her friend's face and put it down to the strong woman finally losing her fortitude. She reached and squeezed her hand in a show of companionship and compassion. Minerva sighed and finally spoke to her friend.

"I'm afraid Poppy that here we will have to go separate ways. I have to perform one final duty and you can not be part of it," she informed her with as much authority she could summon. The nurse regarded her friend a long moment then scowled.

"If I didn't know better Minerva McGonagall I would say you are about to attempt something suicidal..." Poppy retorted angrily. She saw Minerva's eyes widen for a flicker of a moment before she marshaled herself.

"No Poppy...it is much worse than that...far more blasphemous!" Minerva spoke with a shudder and resignation.

"What do you mean to do Minerva?" Poppy Pomfrey asked alarmed.

"I mean to commit a sin...on the twenty-fourth, thirtieth and thirty-third hour..." she spoke barely above a whisper.

"I don't know what that means Minerva, what?" Poppy could not continue for Minerva had clenched her arm in a vise-like grip. Her gray eyes shone with fear and bored into the nurse.

"Do not ask me Poppy! I give you my word the only reason I am not telling you is to save you! Please do not ask me again!" Minerva released her friend and drank from her glass deeply. Poppy sat with Minerva for a half hour in silence after which she came to a decision. She stood abruptly.

"Will I see you again Minerva?" she asked simply. Minerva shook her head.

"Not in this life time Poppy, perhaps never. Go Poppy..." Minerva told her hoarsely. "Miss Granger's body?"

"Has been taken care of, same as all the order members have requested. There is no body...she will not rise again as an inferi!" Poppy said with feeling.

"Brave child!" Minerva muttered. Poppy squeezed her friend's thin old shoulder and left turning back in the door once. She wished her good luck under her breath and left never to return.

In the ill lit room a figure could be seen moving in a tall portrait. He was dressed in voluminous robes with half moon glasses perched on his crooked nose. He looked out into the living world and saw his colleague and confidant from his life stooped and crying. A tear crawled down his cheek and into his beard.

"There is not much time Minerva," he spoke gently with apology. The proud weeping woman glared at him, her eyes more baleful for her tears.

"Was it not enough Albus? Was our service to this world not enough for you?" she shrieked. "You have betrayed me Dumbledore and you have betrayed that boy...you have betrayed those who were most loyal to you, curse you!" Her voice shook.

"The book, Minerva. Remember you must not heal his body!" Dumbledore spoke his head bowed. Minerva made a disparaging sound and stood swiping the ancient tome and the time turner sitting on it. For a moment, in the dying embers, the title of the open chapter flashed: _Unholy Knowledge_.

* * *

_Diagon Alley, A week prior to Hermione Granger's death_

Gray clouds swirled above in a strange frenzy that could only have been caused by magic. Harry marveled at their twisting and fluxing, and ignored the malevolent face and words of his enemy who stood above him in victory. Rain began falling pitter-patter and he smiled at it. Ever since he had been a child he loved the rain, imagining it was God blessing him, letting him know he was not alone and unseen.

Now that he lay broken and torn having lost against his enemy he felt hope and happiness; that finally he would be with his parents and those friends who had passed before him. First time since he had last sat before the mirror of Erised he gave in to his longing and desire to be held by family, he let the pain fill him knowing he was moments away from being relieved of it.

"And so Harry Potter, now they all stand and witness the lie that you are, the failure you are. What fools are these who believed in you?" Lord Voldemort spoke in a whisper his voice rippling magically in the fear stricken Diagon Alley, where the common wizards and witches cowered.

They had witnessed their 'chosen' one's annihilation. They had seen how his arms and legs were burned and cursed away. They had seen their worst fear reduce their reluctant hero to a stump. The swirling skies above and the rain were as much an evil omen for them as they were a sign of deliverance for their hero.

"I didn't fail...I get to die, and these wretches are yours to rule, I don't envy you!" Harry rasped out showing his bloodied teeth in an irreverent smile. Voldemort regarded him tilting his head to the side and laughed a full laugh.

"Ah! How utterly futile! You finally realize the truth when you are a breath away from death!" Voldemort spoke now only to him. The boy below him was going in and out of consciousness but he knew he heard him. The boy's mind was open to Voldemort; he even enjoyed how he looked through the boy's eyes.

"Dying wish! Will you give it to me?" Harry suddenly asked his eyes blazing and Voldemort wondered if the boy had any fight left in him. Voldemort did not ask but delved in his mind finding a face and what the boy imagined he wanted done to him.

"My dear Harry! If you only had asked when you had a leg to stand on, I would have enjoyed seeing you embrace the dark. Your imagination is quite wicked...I will grant you this wish, now off to the next great adventure!" Voldemort mocked and waved his wand transfiguring a great black snake out of the earth.

The snake cradled the broken stump in its coil raising it off the ground to show it to the witnesses. Then with blinding speed sank its fangs in the boy's heart. No sound escaped the young wizard, his body twitched for a few long seconds then stilled. The snake disappeared into the earth returning to dust. The dead hero was left on the ground for all to see.

"To Hogwarts. Oh! And Severus..." Voldemort's voice suddenly turned sibilant and he locked his unnatural eyes with his servant's. Snape fell to his knees with a blood curdling scream, his eyes bleeding and shriveling in their sockets. Voldemort shredded his spy's mind, leaving him in a place of perpetual nightmares. "You see Potter, I am benevolent. I have granted your last wish!" With these words to the dead young wizard he rose into the sky and disappeared in the darkness as if he were a thunder cloud hurtling over the earth.

His servants stared at their screaming comrade and thanked whatever deity they prayed to that they had not been Harry Potter's last wish of revenge. The spy could be found screaming and dragging his head on the ground, blood leaking from empty sockets. Their master's victory had been absolute and his control over them, his servants, was absolute.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

**The Path of Water and Fire**

The sun shone brightly in the abandoned alley that was once the center of magical England's commerce. Minerva McGonagall stood covered in a green cloak and watched the quartered body of her dearest charge in the center square. Only a few meters away Knocturn Alley thrived, but even the degenerates and the dark there did not dare touch the body. It was a statement left by their dark lord and it meant death or worse to spoil it.

Minerva McGonagall steeled herself and disappeared from sight using the boy's own invisibility cloak. Swiftly she made her way to the body…the sight made her hurl. Fearfully she tried to keep her reaction from giving her away but she was still on all fours heaving the contents of her empty stomach. She darted her head from left to right seeking an enemy who had heard her or seen a glimpse of her under the cloak. She stayed still for what seemed an age, her own breath loud in her ears.

Once sure she was alone and undiscovered she enlarged the coffin in her pocket. She placed the quartered pieces the dark lord had been kind to charm against rotting into the coffin. She dared not look at the glassy eyes for fear of losing her composure again. And so in broad day light Minerva McGonagall stole the body of the boy-who-lived.

She appeared in a pleasant looking cottage with a pleasant looking garden overlooking a small valley. She paused to marvel at the view and how strangely inappropriate it was with what she was about to do. Truly the world can not look so beautiful when such vile acts and thoughts existed as she knew did. Tearing away from reflection that would do naught but waste time she opened the coffin and levitated the pieces on to the floor of the hexagonal room that stood in the middle of the cottage.

Many strange runes and diagrams marked the floor drawn by a hand and wand not her own. The sight made her cringe and her sense of betrayal heightened. Her dead mentor had planned for this a long time ago. Still she laid the cursed body in the middle of the carved circle and drew her wand to set to work. From the stump where the arms and legs should have been attached green vine-like things sprouted seeking out lost appendages. Finding them, they entered the pathways where muscle and bone used to connect and linked themselves in their place. Slowly Minerva guided the vines to bring a lacerated arm, a turned to stone leg, another burned arm and a thrice broken leg together with the torso. Once they were together she charmed a conjured silver thread to knit around the torn skin patching it roughly. She frowned at her own work but kept herself from doing it at the level she was capable of. After all, Dumbledore had warned her against it.

Finally she came to the face and this time detached herself from the thought of who this child was and what he meant to her. She shook her head in denial looking at the scarred and slashed face, a face she would hardly recognize if it were not for the glassy green eyes or the still present circular glasses over them. Without looking she summoned a piece of armor that stood in the hallway. In her hand the armor shaped into a silver face plate. She charmed it and put an engraved device of a red lily on it. With a final sigh she placed the plate on the face, a simple shining piece of silver with no place for eyes or a nose or a mouth.

She stood looking at the body near quarter an hour too afraid to do what she knew she had to next. With great trepidation she raised her wand and pointed it to the heart of the boy. _"Revealo Captivum"_ (Reveal Prisoner)

At once a small ball of white light appeared shinning from within the dead body. Tears fell from her expression less face. There was a part of her that had hoped that her mentor had been mistaken. That somehow he had not been successful in doing the unthinkable. But the evidence was before her - he had done it.

As the afternoon sun lead the way to evening Minerva McGonagall could be seen sitting with a lifeless hand in her own scratching with a quill on her forearm furiously. The words she carved on her own arm appeared for a moment on the dead arm attached to the dead body before disappearing into the flesh. It was several hours before she was done committing her thoughts in this strange manner but at the end of it she felt a small sense of relief. In a burst of flame a familiar phoenix appeared giving it seemed a perfunctory trill.

"Ah! Yes! So you are the one Dumbledore convinced to perform these atrocities. Light creature indeed!" McGonagall scoffed, finding no pleasure at the sight of the usually magnificent bird. "This is how you repay your champion?" she demanded but the Phoenix ignored her and hopped next to the body. McGonagall saw movement from the corner of her eye and drew her wand seeing a witch's silhouette against the glass door.

The witch knocked in a distinct manner and entered. Minerva saw herself walk through the door with a time turner hanging around her neck. She simply nodded to her counter self. The second Minerva had bandaged hands and a worn expression.

"I am the one who will perform the second part of the ritual. It will take six hours and will end on the thirtieth hour. Once midnight is struck I will go back three hours and begin the last part of the ritual, ending it on the thirty-third hour. Of course, you know this," she spoke dryly, looking at the first Minerva curiously. Minerva nodded and saw her counter self leave. She looked to the tome in her hands and with a shudder read the beginning of the chapter of Unholy Knowledge.

"The defiance will need one who chooses to be damned willingly to perform the first ritual at the midnight hour. At it's end the damned will return to a time six hours preceding midnight and enter the ritual chamber performing the second ritual ending it six hours later when midnight strikes again or when the thirtieth hour of the day ends.

"The damned will return to a time three hours preceding the midnight hour a second time to perform the last and third ritual ending it on the midnight hour when it strikes for the third time and so the day of the damned will end on the thirty third-hour.

"It is on the thirty-third hour the defiance will be declared and the path of water and fire will take the traveler."

She let a cold feeling grip her and made the cursed vow to accept damnation in exchange for the forbidden passage. Fawkes was already lying prone in the middle of the circle over the dead body. Her counter self was kneeling at one point of the hexagon chanting. McGonagall took out the ceremonial knife and plunged it deep in the heart of the phoenix and through it to the dead heart of the boy. The first ritual had begun.

The hours passed in which the phoenix made sacrifice of immortal life and Minerva made the sacrifice of her soul. It was the end of the thirty-third hour and Minerva saw her first self disappear through the door spinning the time turner, then her second self disappeared using the time turner and finally she was alone.

She watched the circle within the hexagon where an inch of water stood anxiously. Three minutes after the midnight hour the water caught flame and heaved towards the ceiling as if it were raging. The path of water and fire was before her. She saw the dead body lifted by the unnatural waves and disappear within the fiery surf. Knowing what she had to do, she jumped into the burning water and before her lungs were chocked grabbed the hand of the boy.

* * *

(a.n. I am not a student of latin, I'm just using english to latin conversion dictionaries. If someone comes accross my incorrect use of the language please correct me) 


	3. Chapter 3

_**3**_

_**The Power Unknown**_

Minerva McGonagall's body burned in the boiling whirlpool and only with momentous resolve she kept from screaming. Though it was a mere heartbeat later when the scalding pain became unbearable and she cried out. The fiery water gave her no quarter for her beaten declaration and continued to rage at her body. Soon her mind shut itself against the agony, granting her the mercy of temporary oblivion.

By good fortune, or Dumbledore's design, the journey was short, and she was expelled on cold stone, steaming from the passage. Her hand still clasped her charge, when she finally regained consciousness. She coughed out her waterlogged lungs, looking around hazily, and found she had arrived at her destination.

The dying woman lay in front of towering iron double doors, with a strange device of an eclipse embossed on the center. Pathetically, the once Headmistress crawled to the door. She placed the tip of her wand on the device, barely able to hold it with her cooked flesh, and muttered words Dumbledore's portrait had coached her. The doors opened laboriously, grinding over unused grooves in the stone floor. The device of the eclipse split, the sun rolling fully on to the opening door on the left and the moon taking its place on the right door. She shut her eyes, wary of witnessing the capricious power within the room, lest she provoke it.

With her last vestiges of strength she blindly levitated the body of the young wizard into the room. The spell held until her hand surrendered, and the body fell as the wand clattered to the stone floor. Her lips formed words that she hoped the boy could hear: redeem me.

The perpetually locked room in the department of mysteries shuddered at the alien presence. The substance Albus Dumbledore spoke of sought out the prisoner in the body. It touched the prisoner, curious at how he resonated with its own nature. The power's tentative probe released the bounded soul, and this time the tremor was felt far above. The many officious wizards and witches ordered their underlings to find the source of the disturbance. The maintenance staff was harassed by frenzied paper airplanes, but they would never know what came to pass in the bowels of the building.

The enigmatic substance hung suspended in the air, looking like glittering liquid gold, swirling as if it were being spun by wind. It caressed the nexus of white light within the body and surrounded it, enveloping the light in its cold embrace. The white light began to pulse within the magical cocoon, and with each beat it took the color of the power that had released it.

Cognizance of his self and surroundings returned to him guardedly, as if the very state of awareness was somehow dubious. Unexplainable images streamed to his erewhile inert mind and he resented their demand for him to awake. It seemed he had crossed his eyes and had a double vision; though, instead of two of the same he saw two separate streams.

In one, he could see sparkling liquid whirling around lazily in the air. It would touch him, he could not tell where, only that he felt something cold yet comfortable make contact then withdraw. Simultaneously, in the second, images of the back streets from his primary school to Privet Drive jockeyed for his attention. He felt an extreme urgency to go to the street in his sight, even though it felt as if he was already there.

His vision returned to the golden liquid. He tried to move in an attempt to gather where he was, but his body did not respond, he could not sense anything. As if the whirling liquid understood his plight it surrounded him standing him upright. He saw a door and lurched towards it, awkward on his broken and stony legs. The whirling liquid stayed with him, forming a full body crutch, directing his appendages as it interpreted his need, for the body no longer obeyed him.

He wondered idly if this was death, and he was plagued by memories of his past life. He now saw a familiar memory, of an oft occurring event from his childhood. He was getting close to home on Privet Drive and his cousin, with his friends, was ahead of him. It was always a delicate balance, to keep enough distance to remain unnoticed by the aggressive group, and close enough to be on Dudley's heels when they entered the house. He even felt the anxiety this after school challenge used to bring him; Aunt Petunia always punished tardiness.

Roughly, he tore his mind's eye from this vision, back to the unfamiliar place he was in. Passing through the heavy doors he saw his teacher prone on the floor, burned and obviously dead. His vision doubled again, and he saw the faces and distantly heard the voices of his despised relatives. Grief for the death of the woman merged with his confusion at the persistent desire to reach the place in the memory, and he was left frustrated.

Feeling surreal and disconnected, he saw a tome lying by his teacher and her wand. Both items floated up before him, seemingly, of their own volition. He looked at his teacher knowing he should destroy her body, to save her from being raised an inferi, but his hand did not respond to take the wand floating before him. Suddenly, her body combusted and he yelled, though no sound escaped his dead lips. In seconds the body was reduced to ashes, yet he had not felt the heat the furious fire should have emitted, must have emitted.

The dual vision returned and he saw Vernon Dursley bearing down on him, looking much larger than usual, and yelling. The urge to be in the memory became painful, while his rational side rejected the feeling as absurd. A thought penetrated his confusion, frightening him at the prospect of it being true. Was a part of him too afraid to move on, and he was being pulled into his memories because of it? Would the unfamiliar coward in him reduce him to a ghost? The searing pain began making him hysterical, as the two instincts warred within him; one to sooth the relentless need to reach the place in his vision and the other warning against it.

An acute blow blanked all thought and hysteria, the smarting pain on his face confirmed that the man in his memory had struck him. He stared up at Vernon, stunned by the physical sensation more than the fact that he had been hit, and so he was unprepared for the backhand which sent him sprawling. His mind's eye doubled to the ashes of his teacher, while Vernon walked up to him.

For the sake of immediate preservation he ignored his disbelief at the memory attacking him, and forced himself to escape the corpulent man. He had reached the back door when Petunia Dursley caught the back of his collar. Frantically, he scratched at her bony fingers. She let him go with a shriek of pain, and he glimpsed two long red lesions on her arm, before he bolted out the door. He heard the door slam behind him and of sudden he was back in the unfamiliar place, where a wand and tome were floating in front of him.

The pain ripped through his mind and he knew he could not resist the need anymore. However, now the stream of his memories was absent. The pain built up, while he furiously searched for the dual sight, to tell him the place he was called, all qualms forgotten.

Once again, the liquescent power helped the one to entice it from its somnolent dispassion, and magically jettisoned the masked wreck from the underground ministry. Its work done, the power returned to the caliginous depths of the room it resided in, viciously anticipating what was to come next. The doors shut behind with the device returning to its locked position of an eclipse.

The desperation and anguish had fallen away when he saw the gray sky approach. He dearly wished his body still had feeling so he could revel in the speed with which he had been launched to the heavens. With anxious anticipation he awaited the path of after life to reveal it self, relieved the invasive visions and compulsion to fuse with them had abated.

His ascent slowed as he went higher than he had ever been on broom or winged beast. Then his vision tipped and he was headed toward the earth instead of the skies – the anxiety returned. He was falling to the earth like a streaking cloaked missile, pointed where the power had aimed him. Flashes of Wisteria Walk interrupted the site of clouds tearing by him.

Unable to comprehend what was happening to him, except the intimate and inevitable encounter with the distant earth below, he reacted in the most expectant way and screamed, invoking heaven, hell, and Merlin's balls. Within seconds the lay of the land became distinct, until he could make out the forms of people. The place where he would impact, as he judged it, was strangely familiar. His vision doubled showing him the park by Privet Drive, and once more the puce face of his loathed uncle. He cursed the inequity of it all, that that was the final face he would see as he died a second time. To add to his disappointment, both his visions now showed him the man. Though, oddly, in one sight the man seemed to be looking into the sky. Vernon Dursley's face steadily became larger until he saw a set of piggy eyes widen in fear and then…

Vernon Dursley saw his nephew, by marriage (he would never claim him otherwise), fall to his knees and moan in pain holding his head. Grimacing at the scene the boy was making in the middle of the park, where he had given the brat chase to, he lunged to knock him out. That is, until a sense of foreboding froze him in educating the child. He looked to the sky where the freak was looking to, knowing instinctively his ominous feeling had something to do with his unnaturalness. Vernon saw the flash of a red lily on silver before the masked missile impacted, crushing his face through his body into the pristine snow beneath.

For a moment the man's face could be seen, after it had been brutally ejected through his posterior, before the rest of the obese body collapsed over it, dressing the face in indistinguishable innards. Far away, in London, the ministry of magic felt another tremor caused by the exultation that exuded from the hidden room. The maintenance staff quietly slipped away from the building, rightly anticipating a visit from the excitable minister.

He breathed deeply and felt cool air in his warm sticky throat. He smiled at the familiarity of his physical body. He enjoyed the sensation as it was something that finally made sense; hands move, lungs function, snow felt cold and wet. The moment of clarity was short lived, for he made the mistake of opening his eyes, and seeing his messed body lying on top of the ruptured remains of Vernon Dursley.

Feeling oncoming vertigo, he timorously patted his face and torso. Confirming he was, by this highly discerning measure, all there. Reaching up he pulled on his hair, to check if his head was still on his shoulders, when he could see the back of it lying face down no more than three yards from him. Satisfied that he had his body he stood, and at once noticed the lack of height. For a fleeting moment he was perplexed, before deciding this was the least bizarre of all that had happened. A wand and tome appeared out of thin air and distracted him. However, this time he was able to claim them, and childlike hands obeyed his command to catch the wand and book. The wand found its place in a deep pocket and the book went under the oversize sweater he was wearing.

Ignoring the disturbing feeling of being in a child body, he approached his uncle's remains, keeping his nose firmly pinched against the foul smells. He could not help but smile, death had been confusing as hell so far, but it had been spectacular as well. Witnessing his bully uncle sundered by himself shooting down from the atmosphere was an excellent consolation. If this truly was the next great adventure, then it was off to a brilliant start, even though he was disturbed by the presence of the Dursleys.

The sound of excited children brought him out of his musing, and he ran to the hedge that formed the boundary of the park. Alarmed at being found at the incriminating site, he rushed back and pulled on his rightful body, trying to hide it. Even with his heels dug into the ground he could not budge it. Shrill laughter of some annoying prepubescent child served as a warning siren and he apparated away, taking both his bodies with him.

He apparated as far as he could, his mind focused solely on avoiding discovery. Curiously, he appeared in a familiar cave where his godfather had found refuge once. Finally, the scared boy breathed in relief, and lay flat on his back trying to gather what exactly had happened, and why he inhabited a body other than his own. He did not see the words that were crawling from the dead forearm of his rightful body to the child arm he had now.

The physical sensations around him and the absence of fantastic heavenly or hellish scenery, told him that death perhaps truly was the next great adventure. Without the promise of reunion with his loved ones, but more persecution from his hated relatives. A half hour passed in which the boy wizard calmed his turbid thoughts. Night was approaching and the fading light behooved him into movement.

He wiped his face with his hands, hoping that simple act would clarify his puzzling situation. The action did not deliver on his hope, but did bring his attention to the glowing rune on his wrist. Curious, as he always was, he touched it with his forefinger, and was at once rewarded by the apparition of a cat leaping out of his arm. He cried, startled, and stumbled back into the unmoving cave wall he was already up against. The ghostly cat regarded him haughtily, before transforming into his old teacher Minerva McGonagall.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

_**4**_

_Of Revelations, Illusions and Deceptions_

Dusk laid its claim to the land, while Harry Potter tried to decide how to deal with this new phenomenon. For the sake of his sanity he settled on seeing everything in recent experience through a lens of humor; it was all too nonsensical to be real. Taking a leap of faith, he attempted to interact with what his eyes showed him.

"Professor?" he began, unsure of her nature; as she was transparent like a ghost, but still had color, unlike a ghost.

"Potter…Harry," McGonagall spoke with uncertainty and took measure of her surroundings. She spotted the older body of her student and looked sharply back at the little boy who had addressed her. "Have you started attending Hogwarts yet Mr. Potter?"

"Professor…I left Hogwarts nearly two years ago, you know that!" he answered, wary of her unexpected question.

The apparition nodded jerkily. "So it is done," she spoke to herself expelling a sigh that diminished her strict stature. "I am sorry, I had to make certain you were in essence you, and not your younger self. Have you gathered what has happened?" she asked carefully.

"Err…no, except this is not what I expected death to be like! It's very confusing, I saw your body, I have your wand, and my git of an uncle is here, he was chasing me…well that doesn't matter now, he's dead…at least he's lost his head," he rambled, giggling nervously at the end. Reflexively he slapped his hand on his mouth to stop the embarrassing noise, shocked he was capable of it. Evidently his old head of house agreed, for she regarded him with a disturbed look.

"Your uncle is dead?" she asked for confirmation. At his positive nod, she reluctantly ventured and asked: "How?"

The boy before her seemed extraordinarily pleased to answer her question. His eyes lit up before a serious expression settled on his face, as he prepared himself for the tale.

"Me!...I did it," he reported, and then acted out with his hands something flying down from above, accompanied with the sound of the wind whistling by, finally ending in a 'kaboom' as the hand representing the nose-diving object hit the cave floor. The boy gave her a smile full of accomplishment, having concluded his story.

For several long seconds she stood slack jawed, amusing the little boy, and giving him confidence that he was not the only one who was lost. Stupidly, she mimicked his actions representing something falling on his uncle and exploding. He nodded enthusiastically, pleased that she had followed the graphical explanation of his uncle's demise.

"Potter, I'm afraid, I will have to ask you to elaborate," McGonagall demanded. The boy frowned at her, thinking she had obviously understood when she had copied his actions with such accuracy. Still, remembering his resolve to treat everything with humor, he explained again. He raised his right hand in the air, very slowly dropping it to the ground making the sound of the wind whistling by, but sadly, he was cut off by a firm motion from his teacher.

"For Merlin's sake! With words Potter!" she snapped exasperated. The boy was extremely put off, he had been anticipating the moment of impact, but he desisted.

"I fell from the sky on him, and shot his head through his arse. I also took over someone's body. Don't worry, I brought mine along, I just have to figure out how to get back into it," he assured the ghost-like form of his teacher, conveniently explaining away her confused expression for worry. It was a source of further amusement when she began rubbing her temples in calming circles.

"It is probably best if I explain what has happened, and perhaps you can then tell…PAY ATTENTION!" she shouted when she saw him distracted by the silver plate she had transfigured. He was tapping at it curiously, instead of listening to her.

The boy crossed his arms and looked at her dully. It seemed everything since he had woken up was to try his patience. At least, she had been less pain inducing than everything else. The magical shimmer of her body attracted his curiosity, and he walked up to the irate woman to examine her. He did not notice the discomfort his appraisal was causing her, and promptly put his hand through her middle.

"POTTER!" she yelled scandalized, covering her abdomen possessively.

"Sorry, well you're not cold or anything, what are you anyway?" he asked, not too sorry in truth, and returned to the cave floor, now using his dead body as a back cushion.

She wanted to scold him for his disrespect, but remembering the circumstance, held back in favor of answering his pertinent question. "What you see me as is a memory, a last letter of sorts. I cast an old charm to bury my thoughts in your magic, as I would not have been available to speak with you in person." The woman swallowed with difficulty, it was a little off in her current intangible form. However, the reaction to her realization that her true self must have been consumed by the ritual was remarkably understated.

"Sires of old families sometimes left instructions in this manner with their chosen heirs, to be revealed when the time was right," she explained, gaining strength from the familiar ground of teaching.

"I haven't seen you in months professor, when did you put this charm on me? Besides, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm dead, so I can't help you with whatever instructions you have for me." He looked at the memory McGonagall expectantly, who was surprised to hear the conviction in his voice.

"Potter, a moment ago, you said you took over someone else's body," she prompted. The boy nodded in agreement. "Then, how exactly did I know you when I appeared, if you are in a body other than your own?" she questioned patiently, hoping to bring the boy to realization himself.

"Magic!" the boy quipped, removing the cloak from his older body and wrapping it around himself. It seemed he was not too concerned with anything that was happening, and McGonagall feared the journey had deranged him.

"Potter, please do not underestimate the seriousness of the situation. You are, in fact, in your younger body. That is why I asked you if you had attended Hogwarts. I needed to determine if you had successfully crossed from your dead older body to the one you had when you were ten."

The boy, staying true to his resolve, considered her words with a smile. He brought his hands up to his face, first tracing the scar on his forehead, and then feeling around the glasses. Surprised, despite thinking nothing could anymore, he jumped up, and undid his belt hurriedly, pushing his jeans down. The memory McGonagall quickly looked away, a transparent pink rising in her cheeks.

"What on earth are you doing Potter?" she demanded flustered.

"Checking for my birthmark," he explained shortly. "It's here…damn," his voice was distinctly sad. Concerned, McGonagall looked back, but hurriedly turned away again, finding the boy still pant-less.

"Is there something the matter, Potter?" she asked, trying hard not to berate the boy for undressing in her presence.

"It's horribly depressing looking at…_myself_ at ten," he admitted morosely, free of his shame while surrounded by all the unreality. The woman's lips thinned into a straight line and she tried to convince herself she had misunderstood the intent of his words. "This is probably the worst thing that's happened since dying." He sighed.

"Curse you Dumbledore! The boy has lost his mind," she swore at the wall she was facing. "Potter, if you are done lamenting your _size_ perhaps you could start panicking about how you are a ten year old again!"

"Well, this is not on, I have to get back into my body," the boy said with certain urgency. "What is going on Professor?" He finally turned to her giving up on the strategy of humor, since it was not doing anything more for his sanity than he thought it would have. Suddenly finding a sober Harry Potter on her hands, McGonagall lost her stride.

"Do you remember your duel with Voldemort?" she asked gently. Dramatically his expression changed, she saw a flicker of regret before pure revulsion twisted his childish features. Up till this moment, his cheekiness had made it easy to interact with him, but now the dichotomy between his childish face and the darkness it carried from the older soul was disconcerting.

"Yes, I remember," he answered, visibly repressing whatever her question had awoken in him. McGonagall was taken aback by the laden tone of his childish voice, but quelled her disquiet.

"Voldemort killed you seven days ago," she informed, marveling at the absence of emotion in her voice. The boy drew a deep breath and brushed a shaky hand through his hair, to her confusion, in relief.

"Glad I wasn't imagining things then," was his nonchalant response. Despite already having made concession for his suspect sanity, McGonagall could not help be angered by his carelessness. Did he not understand what his death had meant to them all?

"Is that all?" she prompted, hoping he was putting up a façade. "I can tell you the hope of all magical Britain broke with your-"

"You mean the cowards were upset they lost their fucking excuse when I died!" he interrupted her, biting out his words. His anger gave her pause, enough so that she forgot to chastise him for his language. The boy's clenched jaws were clear on his thin face, and she thought she saw fleeting regret in his eyes again. However, the vehemence of his words left no doubt that he did not care for magical England. Even she, herself, had derided the cowardice of the magical community, but always found solace in the path of light.

"Your death is…was a personal loss, as well," she coolly added, unwilling to let the pain of those who had felt for him, including herself, go unacknowledged. In the reflection of the light from her own form she saw him clench his small hands, and drop his eyes, contrite. A first of several awkward silences fell between them, eventually broken by the apparition.

"What is happening now begins with when you died," she began once more, taking his silence for attention. "Seven days ago, when you died, Albus Dumbeldore's portrait awoke," her unhappiness was clear. The boy was confused, thinking she of all people would have been happy by that fortunate turn.

"Well that's a good thing right? He'd have known what to do. Since I'm dead he could have given you advice…" he trailed off seeing his head of house shake her head in negative. Her unexpected reaction distracted him from the realized pain of being separated from the ones he had left behind in life. It was worrisome that he had not yet met anyone who had passed on to death, but for the moment he pushed it aside to resolve McGonagall's obvious disappointment with the portrait's awakening. The apparition was lost in some memory or thought, and slow to continue.

"It was, of course, the way he had meant it to be…" she whispered, leaving the boy guessing what she referred to. "The Portrait was enchanted to wake only in the event of your death, and provide me with the tools to undo…everything." She shook her head and straightened, having unknowingly begun stooping as if she were physically burdened. "Excuse me, Potter, it has been an unduly trying week," she apologized for being incoherent.

"The portrait appeared in my personal chambers, and Albus invoked the life debts and many other debts I owed him in life. It was only a matter of time before I would have been found by the enemy and so I was eager to repay any debts before my end. I agreed to whatever repayment he wanted. After all, it was Albus who was asking." McGonagall's apparition shrugged uncharacteristically. He understood why she would not have questioned anything, and was curious to know what the great sorcerer would want in death.

"It is then he told me that you were not dead, not fully, and that your soul was trapped in your body. I thought it was Voldemort's doing, but I was mistaken." McGonagall laughed ruefully, not meeting the boy's bewildered eyes.

"It was Albus Dumbledore," she announced with grand affect, "the hope and leader of the light." She shook her head sadly and soberly continued, "It was he who bound your soul, so you could be resurrected if you fell against Riddle. So no, you at least, are not dead."

"I don't understand, Professor. You told me I died and now you're saying I'm not. Which one is it?" he demanded. "Dumbledore wouldn't bind my soul, isn't that dark?"

"I must ask you to excuse me again, when I entrusted this message I was…distressed, and so I am doing a poor job of explaining. I promise you in the end you will understand the reason why." She waited for him to accept her apology, but had to settle for his tense silence.

"It is true that you were killed, and it is also true that Dumbledore bound your soul as a last protection, and the ritual of binding was created by light witches and wizards," she didactically began, easing into her teaching mannerism. "It was the time of the founders when it was first discovered that the Dementor's kiss would steal its victim's soul. The great witches and wizards tried to find a way to prevent it.

"The founders created a ritual that would bind a person's soul to their body, so if they were kissed the soul could not be stolen. Godric's son was one of the few on whom the ritual was performed. On their quest to disprove a local legend, Godric's son and his friend were attacked by dementors. They fought valiantly but were defeated.

"When Gryffindor finally found his son, he was dead, his body was a cold shell but the soul was trapped. Gryffindor released his son's soul, only to find that it was stuck on this realm. His son's body was wasted; his soul had no place to go. So cruel was this fate that the knowledge of soul binding became forbidden, and was never used again. Gryffindor paid a heavy price to exorcise his son from the realm of the living to the next."

"Thanks for the history lesson, Professor, but I still don't know what's happening. What does that have to do with me?" His confusion had given way to anger, and he was impatient for answers.

"It has everything to do with you!" Minerva snapped, before visibly calming herself. "The fact that if I had released your soul it would have no place to go is very important!"

"Well you obviously did that right? and exorcised me or whatever to this ridiculous plane!" He waved his hand impatiently, having lost his previous inclination to humor everything.

"No, I did not!" McGonagall steadily corrected. "I do not have the power Gryffindor or Albus Dumbledore had." She paused to let him absorb this. The boy before her was silent but agitated.

"That means that I am trapped right now," he rolled over Minerva's attempt to speak. "And what I see is some kind of prison?" he asked himself.

"You are not trapped right now…although that may be a subjective observation." Minerva corrected, cringing slightly at the boy's exasperated exclamation at her words.

"Dumbledore explained in his oh' so patient manner that you had to be taken to a time before your soul was bound, and before your body was destroyed. And there, only there, could your soul be released, because then it would seek out your living whole body and find its home.

"To fulfill my debts to him I had to take you to that time, and release your soul so it could find your younger healthy body." McGonagall quieted watching her student's incredulous expression.

"I'm not dead, because you brought me back in time and made me a ten year old again." He laughed, giving her a look of disbelief, expecting her to deny it any moment. When the denial did not come, he smiled sadly and nodded as if he understood.

"Gone off my nut, I have. Shouldn't be surprised after all the crucios. Loony as Luna, or maybe Longbottom," he muttered and giggled mirthlessly, this time not shocked by it. The memory before him had nothing to say to that conclusion, and he shut his eyes, dismissing her presence.

Unfortunately, her words were not so easily dismissible, and with cold dread he admitted to himself the split visions he had experienced were plausible evidence for what she had revealed. The agony that had come with the visions, and the instinctive knowledge that he had to reach his younger body to be free of the pain, also was a mark of proof in favor of the specter's preposterous claim.

Frenetically he searched for a way to stave off the creeping realization, knowing it was in vain. It was one thing to be disappointed that death was not what he hoped for, it was entirely another, to know that death had been stolen from him. More, that he had not escaped the prophecy and the treacherous wizards and witches that expected him to save them. Did this mean he had to live through everything again?

"No! You're not saying…that's impossible!" he protested, unwilling to answer the question in his heart. "I'M SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD! I'M DONE! WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO ME?" he accused her in shock and anger.

"You have to understand that all that has happened has been against my wishes. I was denied and betrayed just as you have been, Potter. Albus forced us to sacrifice more than he had any right to ask of us!" the memory hung her head, alarming him by the weakness the strong woman showed.

"Dumbledore wouldn't do this to me! He owed me for abandoning me to those magic hating muggles, for Snape raping my mind, and he owes me for believing the bastard's lies!" he snarled. His refusal to believe her angered her in turn.

"Are you accusing me of lying Mr. Potter? How do you explain what is happening? If 'Dumbledore wouldn't do this to you,'" she questioned archly, all traces of emotion gone from her demeanor. He balked at the question.

"That's absolutely…" he protested weakly, unable to find the word to express how ridiculous she was being. "I don't even know if you're really McGonagall, if this is not some insane nightmare, or just Voldemort's sick joke!" he gesticulated wildly. "No! This is all in my head! I wish Dumbledore had taught me occlumency, I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S REAL!" he shouted at the cave ceiling in helplessness.

"No I suppose you do not. However, you must decide one way or another, because it is point less for me to run through my entire message to you if you think this is all in your head!" McGonagall crossed her arms, and fixed him with a look which suggested he was nothing more than an errant child.

To his chagrin he folded under the glare, cursing himself for being intimidated by the ghost-memory of his teacher. They did not speak for a long time, another heavy silence between them. He leaned against the wall despondently, attempting to cope with what he had heard so far. His mind adamantly ignored the conclusions he had already drawn.

"It is impossible to travel years back in time, Professor. I would know, after seeing Hermione's time turner, I searched for anyway to take me back to mum and dad." His disappointment was palpable, and that alone softened McGonagall.

"You haven't only been brought back in time Potter…the future, all that has happened, all the people, who they grew into, their happiness, their grief, their choices, everything has been erased. The life that you and I led from this time forwards does not exist!" McGonagall saw the slowly dawning horror on her student's face, revealed by the magical glow of her form. "You will not be able to return to your true time."

He slumped where he stood, drawing the tattered cloak around him tightly, he had not thought of this implication and he forgot that his question had not been answered. The mind and heart were too occupied stubbornly rebelling against the crashing revelations.

Minerva saw snowfall at the mouth of the cave, and wondered how the boy was withstanding the cold. The question, she realized, was foolish a moment later, when she saw his far-away eyes. The child was too shocked and bewildered to pay attention to the elements. She wondered if she should burden him with the knowledge of what she had had to give up, but then she was only a message, her purpose was to be delivered.

"You haven't answered my question," he spoke suddenly, bringing her out of her musings. "It is impossible to do what you're saying! No one can have that kind of power!" He latched on to that belief, getting a sense of balance from it.

"Albus found a way to nullify what had happened, and a way to travel this far into the past…Mr. Potter this sort of meddling is the most unforgivable, it is against nature itself." She steeled herself to burden him with the cost she had borne.

"Albus had an ancient book of hidden and forbidden knowledge. It instructed that to perform the ritual of defiance…to create a passage to the past and rip the future, the one to perform the ritual…would have to willingly accept damnation in payment." She waited for his response, hoping she did not have to spell it out for him.

"You?!" he gasped, "No!" He stood horrified; not believing what his heart told him was true.

"That is indeed the payment for the debts Dumbledore called in. He sent me to retrieve the book and the items for the ritual, he had hidden away in life. I damned my soul, and Fawkes, the foolish beast, gave his immortal life to open the passage of water and fire to carry us both back." She quieted but it was as if her words rebounded in the cave.

"How was I released?" he whispered, breaking the strained quiet, unable to look at her. "Did you take me to Dumbledore…in this time?"

"No! Albus warned me that his past self would not believe himself to be capable of what he had done. It will not be until he actually attempts to bind your soul and prepares the chamber for the ritual, will he conceive that what he is planning for will happen." She paused a moment, before answering his question fully.

"He never intended to release you himself. He believed that there was a power within you that had strength to break the binds; he expected that at some point in your maturation you would break through yourself. Sadly, for you, it did not happen. However, it made resurrecting you possible.

I was ordered to take you to the source of your strength…there is a room in the department of mysteries, that holds an utterly frightening power. Albus believed that to be the source of your strength…it is there I took you, or I must have, since this memory of mine does not extend further than when I committed it to you." She waited for him to react, to say something, but he simply sat on the floor, his eyes dead.

"So you are telling me, that my friends, Sirius, all the deaths…that none of those happened! You're telling me that everyone I cared for, who cared for me, everyone in this God forsaken world has been wiped out from existence, that my wife…" he suddenly was struck dumb by that word. Somehow, when he had thought he had died, it was still a remote idea and the pain had not made its mark.

"McGonagall!" he raged stalking to the apparition, and attempted grab her by the arms, but his hand passed through impotently. "What about Hermione?"

"She was cursed badly, Harry, when she heard you were killed, she gave up. She died four days after you…she had nothing to live for." The memory bowed its head in regret.

The boy fell to his knees, knowing if he believed the apparition before him he would have to accept the death, no, the erasure of his surviving best friend and wife, the one who had been unwaveringly loyal.

The wretched worms in Diagon Alley had made him forget the last reason he still fought, and in that moment of disgust he had only thought of revenging himself on their complacent cowardice. And now everything had flown from that moment, the self crimination undid the tenuous control he had kept by denying everything in his mind.

McGonagall's spectral memory watched as the back and shoulders of the small boy before her shuddered in anguish, barely a sound escaped his lips that were stretched in a grimace of grief. She watched in mute horror as the little boy grabbed hold of his own older dead body and hurled his small fists into the unresisting cadaver - punishing himself. Like a shadow sentinel she stood, no need for sleep or food hindered her chosen responsibility to guard the distraught child until he fell to exhaustion.

­­­­­

_The Morning After_

Light crept into the cave as the chill morning dawned. The little boy could be seen standing at the mouth of the cave, the overlarge and tattered cloak of his former life flapping around him in the cold breeze. He leaned into the wind, hoping that its bite would take away the reality he had awoken to. With narrowed eyes he tried to pierce through the snow covered world, trying to find signs of its artifice. This was hardly the first time he had been taken in by illusions.

Revelations and events of the past day threatened to overwhelm him. He quelled the turbid emotions; they were tools for Voldemort to keep him from knowing he was being manipulated. Defense against the dark arts was his one strength, and everything from disorienting physical experiences to emotional overload he had felt yesterday warned him to be cautious.

Nothing in his surroundings betrayed the truth one way or another, so he concentrated harder, looking for the usual stimulus Voldemort put in his illusions to spur him to do something stupid. There were no distant screams, or visions of his friends getting tortured, no enemy suddenly appearing, nothing to get him to rush into a trap, or worse, attack a friend thinking they were a foe.

There was only so much time he could spend questioning this reality, if he did not begin acting he had accepted the information he had been fed, Voldemort would become wise to it. Even as he thought this, something told him this was not Voldemort's work; the fallacies the dark lord forced him to experience were distinctly believable. They were also accompanied with pain in his scar, which was at the moment, uncharacteristically quiescent.

There were still many ways other than Voldemort's legillimency that could deceive his senses. Almost all of those methods relied on his mind aiding in creating a believable fantasy. So he resolved to behave unexpectedly to find the weaknesses in this deception, while pretending to believe what he had been told.

The apparition of Minerva McGonagall appeared to his side of its own accord, startling him. Luckily, he was too worn to react and show his surprise. Still, her very presence evoked the anguish he had felt the night before. At the least acting that he believed her would not be difficult, the pain he had felt was real. As long as he focused on it, he could trick the ones casting this illusion into thinking they had him completely trapped.

Reluctantly, he began the game by letting himself believe what he saw and heard. His breath caught in his throat when once again he faced the truth McGonagall would have him accept. His world, as he had known it, had not only died but ceased to exist, never passing on to that place where they were all to be reunited. That world was alive only in his mind and heart, and that of the spectral memory of his teacher.

"Why did you do it? If you had refused you would have lost your magic and died…that would have been better than losing your soul!" he asked the question bothering him, irritated by his own childish voice.

"I could have," she agreed, "…and left your soul trapped till the end of all things…but I have never protected you as I should have. I let Albus over rule me in so many aspects of your care; I could not possibly abandon you." McGonagall admitted her regret.

"I never blamed you!" he spoke harshly, feeling guilt for her choice, but immediately tempering it by the real possibility that that was exactly what she might want him to feel.

McGonagall 'tsked' tiredly. "You never knew. I daresay if you had, you should have blamed me. Knowing what I know now, I blame myself," she explained pensively. There was nothing he could say to that and so kept his silence. Sidelong, he observed her proud bearing, and felt daunted by the woman's constitution. The sacrifice she had made to save him and atone for wrongs she thought she had done him was staggering. Dumbledore should not have forced that choice on her.

The very thought of the man elicited self loathing. He had been so pathetic, forgiving and forgetting what the wizard had done to him, because he had said how he had loved him. The headmaster's words had become the poisonous balm to the neglect and want from his childhood, eroding the impulse to turn away from him. And so he had declared his fealty to the grand sorcerer; making excuses for the only one to tell him he was loved.

He tasted something bitter in his mouth and spat disgusted at his weakness. He still felt betrayed and let down, he had trusted him, he had been a fool; just like all the other adults in his life who had followed the headmaster without question. He wanted to blame them, but the guilt that he had done the same shamed him from it…No! If he wasn't going to forgive himself for it, he wouldn't forgive them either. McGonagall's memory shimmered beside him and he shuddered at the cost she bore for her trust in the old sorcerer. And he knew, even if she had been Dumbledore's staunchest supporter, he would never condemn her, not after what she had done for him.

"Is there a way to help you? To get your soul back," he whispered. Mentally he tried to pull back from the ire and anger, he could not afford to lose the balance between believing convincingly and being cautious of everything he was told.

"I do not know Mr. Potter. Perhaps the book with the ritual will have answers. I am lost in darkness somewhere, and in Hogwarts following Dumbledore blindly as always!" she said the last with great disdain. The feeling resonated with him, and he knew that whatever his sense of betrayal was, it did not compare to the woman's, who had followed the Grand Sorcerer for decades.

"Call me Harry, Professor. After all you are more or less part of me now?" he asked, pointing to the now dim rune on his wrist. McGonagall gave a wry smile.

"Indeed Harry, it is a situation far more intimate than is perhaps comfortable for either of us. My function as a message is over. If you wish for my guidance you may keep me, much like you would keep a portrait. It is best if you call me Minerva, at this point formalities are idiotic!" she spoke with such firmness that he did not even think to decline. With slight apprehension he realized he wanted to trust her, which was dangerous if she was a construct to lure him into a deadfall.

Abruptly, he turned into the cave, going directly to his older body. Meticulously he examined it, divesting it of the clothes. The cursed and broken body was his own, he was certain of it. He picked at the silver thread and McGonagall explained it was she who had tied the appendages together. Carefully, he examined every possession on the body, checking if it truly belonged to him.

He came to the simple wedding ring still on the hand of the cadaver. He reached for it, unsure, and pulled back at the last moment. It was not yet time to face what it meant; it would tip the balance of the game he was playing with the supposed puppeteer in his head. He wondered if McGonagall's apparition knew what would pass through his mind if she mentioned Hermione's death. Knowing there was no way he could discover any ulterior motives she may have had, he dropped that line of thought. It had been in the aftermath of his violent reaction, to the news of her death, he had realized that he might have been deliberately provoked emotionally to believe a ruse.

Finally, he came to the face of the corpse which was covered by the silver plate. Carefully, he removed it, and looked askance at McGonagall, her explanation that she thought it was an appropriate gift did not satisfy him, but for the time he accepted it. The red lily on the metallic face shield attracted him, and he drew comfort from the solid fact it represented: he was Lilly and James Potter's son. Dryly he laughed at how insecure his weird predicament was making him. McGonagall asked what amused him but he waved a dismissive hand and placed the plate in his jeans' pocket, glad of the large pockets of Dudley's second hand clothes that had gone underappreciated in his child hood.

Now he looked upon the face under the mask, one he was most familiar with. Glassy green eyes stared up at him from the etched study in torture. With morbid fascination he felt the cold flesh, remembering exactly how each hex, curse and cut had felt. The way all the wizards and witches had watched, wands held to their sides, not raising them in his defense or their own, too afraid. He remembered the whisper of a moment he had hoped one would step forward to help him, and the crushing helplessness when no one did. But he knew they expected him to be their miracle, and he hated them for it. He sat cradling the cursed face in his childlike hands, disturbed by his own dead eyes staring back at him and the child hands with which he felt the shredded flesh.

"Harry?" Minerva McGonagall's apparition tried to gain his attention, seeing his face slowly twisting in horror as he looked down on the dead body he used to occupy. The afflicted eyes of the child turned to her, accusing her, distrust heavy in them; his entire physiognomy warned her he was poised for attack. He had stood up and was trying to tear into her being with his sight. The silence between them was dark and tense, and McGonagall had no understanding of what he was trying to find within her, she hoped the child who had looked at her with sympathy would return.

"Who are…" he began, but suddenly stepped back shaking his head, and of sudden the shadow was lifted. "What did you want?" he asked, as if nothing had happened. She did not know he was about to betray to her that he thought her to be a puppet of the dark lord, that he dared not trust her.

The apparition opened her mouth to ask what he was about to say before, but he interrupted her again as if knowing her question. "You did call me, right?"

She could not believe the only expression on his face was curiosity now, and knew she had missed something of significance. Quickly, she searched for something to ask him. "Your Uncle, is he truly…" she trailed of, dismayed by the topic she had brought up in his erratic state.

He frowned, understanding what she was asking him, but could not bring himself to care if the vision of Vernon Dursley's death was true or not. The question had reminded him of his experience immediately preceding the 'head through arse' predicament of his uncle. If he could return to the department of mysteries, to that room which hid the most terrible power, the magic there would be powerful enough to disrupt any illusion cast around him – at least, he had to hope that was the case. Resolved on that course of action, he moved to lift the body without answering the apparition's incomplete question.

The apparition watched the boy make the slow exodus to the cave mouth, carrying the body on his back. It was clear the weight was not manageable, but he was determined and she was wary of provoking him to clear her confusion. Still, when he stumbled for the second time she could not resist anymore.

"Potter, what are you doing?" she demanded, hoping he would not ignore her question the way he had with the last one.

"Leaving," he answered shortly, conserving oxygen.

"I gathered, but why are you carrying the body?"

"I'm not coming back, can't leave it here, can I?" he explained taking a break from his burden.

"No, you should probably bury it, or burn it," McGonagall mused, looking around for a suitable place for either activity, and so missed the incredulous look directed at her.

"I am _not _burying or burning my body!" the boy finally spoke shocked, grasping the memory-ghost's attention.

"Don't be ridiculous, you can not risk deatheaters getting their hands on it…well that might not be a concern yet," McGonagall conceded.

"Given all that's happened, Professor, I don't think it would be good for my mental health to bury or burn myself," the boy explained in a remarkably reasonable tone.

"No, Potter, carrying around your corpse on your back is infinitely better for your mental health!" she made no effort to veil the sarcasm. She met his defiant glare steadily crossing her arms. Their impromptu contest of wills was broken by a drawn out and very humbling gastric noise. McGonagall smirked at her abashed student, who was avoiding her eyes now.

"Something the matter?" she asked with perfect sincerity, but it did not fool the boy.

"I'm hungry!" he ground out, still embarrassed and slightly betrayed that she was enjoying his discomfort. To get back at her, he very decidedly got under the cursed body, and continued his painstaking journey to the cave opening. The apparition sighed and waved her hand motioning a 'go ahead,' even though, the boy had not waited for permission.

The physical endeavor drowned out his many questions, and for a blissful few minutes he truly rested his overwrought mind. Eventually he had to submit that he would not make great distance with the body and so drew McGonagall's wand for aid. The wand in his hand was burnt and stained with blood; he waved it apathetically knowing it was capable of little magic now. The body remained resistant to the little magic he was able to push through the ill suited medium, and he was unable to reduce it in size or lighten its weight. Increasingly frustrated, he continued, adamant on taking it with him. A short brilliant spark announced the death of the wand, as it cracked down the middle but also success when the corpse shrunk to a length no longer than his arm. The wand returned to the deep pocket, kept in respect for his teacher, and the body went under one arm, held to his side like a doll. The apparition was standing on the ledge looking outwards to where a tower of the castle could be seen, and he joined her in her quiet reflection.

"So you came to your senses?" she asked after a minute. In answer he held up the cursed pint-sized body and enjoyed her sigh of suffering. For more her own sake than his, she chose to forget the issue of the dead body. "I suppose you will not be returning to your Aunt's…I can not imagine it is advisable, given the recent and still _unexplained_ death of her husband," she tried once again hoping to find out what exactly had happened to the boy's uncle.

"I am not going back to Privet Drive, and I'm going to Dumbledore either!" he snapped. "It isn't fair, I'm done…I'm not going back!" he swore again pointing to the spires of the castle.

"I understand," McGonagall said after a moment and the child glared at her in disbelief. When she said no more he accepted she was being sincere, and left, turning his back on the only place he had thought home. Neither the apparition or the boy saw the two phoenixes flying far above following his movements.

Pangs of hunger distracted Harry Potter from his anger, reining his mental and physical efforts into satisfying the ever wanting beast. Lack of money forced him to apparate to Diagon Alley, which was inconveniently empty at this early hour. Hearing the telling sound of someone apparating, the many shopkeepers of the alley peaked out hoping to catch the first customer of the day.

This was too much attention and he put on the silver plate in a desperate attempt to hide his identity. So it was a pleasant surprise when he found that he could see and breathe through it, as he would without it, and that it conformed to his child face, sitting snugly. With a new air of confidence he dropped the tattered hood over his face, to give as little as possible to the curious onlookers to remember his presence by, and dashed to the white bank building at the end of the alley.

After fifteen minutes, the gossiping up-standing proprietors made note of the street urchin, as they had dubbed the hooded boy, escape the front doors of the bank cursing heavily and holding a bandaged hand. The street urchin's vocal and inventive expression of distaste for Goblin blood identity rites earned him a point of approval from said proprietors. After all, anyone who at that age had the correct appreciation for the rude paranoid plague the diminutive beasts were had his head screwed on right – even if it did seem as if it had a face plate on it – how unusual!

The street urchin's steady pace towards the Leaky Cauldron at the other end of the alley disappointed the conscientious businessmen, for they had been eyeing the not so subtly hidden bag of gold under the boy's over large cloak. The street urchin, as all good street urchin, was first and foremost interested in putting some food in his stomach, a roof over his head and distance between him and the main stream populace.

It was not until Tom the Barkeep was convinced that Harry was a turned out squib of a dark family that had cursed his face and cut off his nose, forcing him to wear the mask, that he allowed the strange boy room and breakfast. So moving was the story that with a harrumph he informed the boy that breakfast was on the house and he could use one of the smaller rooms for the morning. Thanking the man profusely for his kindness Harry finally sat down to a hot meal, which by his clock was at least ten days too late in coming.

Some time later when the day had grown to a more reasonable hour, evident by the sounds of greater traffic through the bar, Harry Potter could be found swirling his tea absentmindedly staring fixedly at the dirty windows in his room, the dwarfed corpse propped and sitting across the tea service to him. Now that his body was satiated and relieved, his mind was free to wander to familiar paths of desperation wrought of being hunted. He repeated his own words to McGonagall's specter in his head as if they would give him some idea of what to do next – I am not going back! I am not going back! I am not going back! Was soon becoming a sick mantra he could not get rid off.

It was when he spied McGonagall's burnt blood stained wand on the side table that he found his direction. Although, it came with its own conundrum: how was he to purchase a wand from Ollivander without giving away his identity. After mulling over it he scrapped the idea of wearing his mask into the man's shop, based solidly on the old wizard's sheer creepiness to look at you as if he could see all your dirty secrets along with when you had your last dental check up – or so he mused disgruntled.

"Mr. Potter!" He suddenly heard someone shout his name. He was startled out of his charitable thoughts for old man Ollivander, and spilled tea on himself while vaulting over the seedy couch to hide behind it, pointing the faulty wand at the shouter.

"I say, that sofa would not hold up to much, I would think you to be more careful in choosing where you hide. Come out Mr. Potter, have some sense of decorum!" the spectral memory of McGonagall archly ordered. He glared at her for interrupting his thoughts.

"What the hell did you do that for? I nearly pissed myself!" He scowled at the woman embarrassed and angry.

"Language!" McGonagall admonished.

"Sorry Ma'm," he responded habitually, not even looking to see the woman nod at his apology with approval.

"I have been trying to gain your scarce attention for nigh ten minutes now-"

"Really? Ten whole minutes," he interrupted skeptically, trying to clean the tea up, he ignored the headmistress's repressive glare.

"Yes, I wish to suggest that you acquire appropriate clothing…it is much too cold. You will become ill if you're not careful!" Her manner switched from task master to care giver in a second. Harry blinked at her stupidly, a bit off balanced by her fluctuating attitude.

"Is that what you popped up to tell me?" he asked carefully, wary that she had finally decided to convince him to return to hero work.

"Yes, Mr. Potter. Must you be so suspicious?" McGonagall admonished again, grating on his nerves. The idea of having her attached to him constantly began to seem taxing, and he forgot his caution.

"Come to think of it, there is really no reason for me to be suspicious of everything now is there!" he retorted.

"I would hope my current form is evidence enough that I do not deserve to hear that from you!" the specter snapped back with equal anger. He felt something cold drop inside him and did not meet her eyes. There was an immediate awkward silence between them.

"I see you have visited your vault…and ah! dead doll Harry is visiting for tea as well," she mocked catching sight of the cursed body. "I had assumed when you said you weren't going back you would not be returning to the wizarding world," McGonagall questioned breaking the silence.

"Need money to eat, need money to get out of the country. I can't have the ministry pulling me in for under age magic, speaking of which I need a wand," he muttered, pouring himself another cup of tea, feeling extraordinarily uncomfortable in the memory's presence.

"I presume you do not wish to purchase your rightful wand?"

"Dumbledore would know," he answered simply. The memory 'hmm'd' and was lost in thought.

"There are two wand makers on the continent. Neither of them trustworthy really, too fixated on frivolous designs than craft," she said with disapproval, making him roll his eyes at the familiarity of the woman's rectitude. "There is, however, Vladimir Gregorovich, not quite like an Ollivander wand but then one would be hard pressed to find one to match him."

"And where do I find Gregorovich? Bulgaria?" he asked, remembering Victor Krum's wand had come from Gregorovich.

"Volgograd, Russia, or as it is still known in the magical world: Tsaritsyn. It will be cold in Russia, make certain you are dressed warmly!" the woman ordered. He groaned frustrated but resigned to do as she had ordered.

"I have to do one thing before I leave the country…I am assuming Dumbledore bound my soul before my first year?" he asked.

"No, he bound it at the end of your first year, following your encounters with Riddle. He was afraid his protections would not be enough to stop the dark lord," McGonagall explained somberly. "The portrait said you would understand why he designed the ritual to send you a full year before the binding. I confess it is not something I have given much thought."

The resurgence of the old wizard's mysteries ignited his anger, and furiously he sought the answer to the riddle. Both the child and apparition bent their thoughts to see the reason behind the machinations.

"Maybe, he wanted me to change something my first year. But I saved the Sorcerer's stone last time when I killed-" he stopped short, an expression of realization on his face. "You don't think he…wants me to save Quirrel's life, do you?" he asked the memory, hoping she would disagree. The woman tensed and her eyes narrowed.

"Albus always insisted on redeeming the dark, at the cost to those who followed the light," she spat, unconcerned with exposing her anger to her student anymore, where once she would have hidden it behind a sense of propriety. "I am disappointed to say I would not be surprised if that was his intention."

The boy suppressed his rage at Dumbledore's continued attempts to use him. Instead, he exploited the chance he had been given to misdirect the apparition, while he made plans to break into the ministry.

"There is something I have to do before leaving the country," he spoke, surreptitiously glancing at the still angered McGonagall. He continued once she was listening. "I'm not going back to saving all those cowards and liars, but I can't disappear and leave Sirius in Azkaban. He lived off of rats to protect me!" he swore with true feeling. "I hope your wand will be up to helping me catch Wormtail."

"It would be sensible to purchase a proper wand before confronting a death eater…" McGonagall paused seeing the boy shake his head no.

"I'm not going to Russia then coming back to England to give Dumbledore and Voldemort a chance to track me down, no way!" he disagreed strongly.

"And how do you intend on exposing Pettigrew?" McGonagall asked calmly.

"Plain and simple, I'm going to catch him, stun him, and send him to Dumbledore with an encoded message from an anonymous Order member, to question the rat under Veritaserum!" he finished with a resolved punch in the air.

"I see, and you know the secrecy charms the order uses?" McGonagall questioned triumphantly, pointing out one of the flaws in his plan. The boy gave her a pointed look, and she glared at him realizing where exactly he would be finding the secrecy charms. Before she could berate him he brushed the rune on his wrist forcing the memory McGonagall to disappear.

Indulging in a self congratulatory smile for fooling her, he left the small room to purchase things he would need to solidify that freeing his godfather was his goal…and buy some warm clothes to halt the woman's incessant worry over the cold. Tonight he would infiltrate the department of mysteries, once again.


	5. Chapter 5

A.N. Fixed some typos in this chapter and cleaned it up. Nothing has changed content wise. Go to chapter six 'Path of the Forsaken' for the new chapter. Thanks for the reviews.

No Rest for the Wicked  


Sharp, spicy smells permeated the air over the pint sized cauldron in the smallest room of the _Leaky Cauldron_. A stained copy of _Moste Potente Potions_ was open with several pages marked. Tiny portable bags filled with powdered potions sat next to vials full of bubbling liquids, waging the battle in the air with their own distinct pungency. Harry Potter hastily secreted the bags and vials in his clothes, glancing at the door, expecting Tom the Barkeep, or the aurors to come calling.

The return foray into _Diagon Alley_ had not gone as well as he had planned. Some overly concerned busy body had noticed him pocketing poisonous snakes at the _Magical Menagerie_. The snakes, he had promised freedom in exchange for service as scouts at the ministry. The busy body with self appointed authority had inquired after his parents. The situation had predictably degenerated from there, regardless of his insistence he had the galleons to pay, and his mum was at the cauldron shop. In hindsight professing his innocence in parseltongue was a poor way to make his case. The alley was in an uproar over a child parseltongue illegally apparating away, after being caught shop-lifting. The acerbic snakes were denied their escape, and for all the trouble he had come away only with a rat cage.

The rat cage, along with parchment and quill was placed to be immediately visible. Everything else was put away into a muggle backpack, which then was hidden behind the sofa. He sat down on the sofa, trying to appear relaxed, and summoned his teacher's memory. She appeared, looking quickly around her to orient herself. After appraising his warm muggle attire she graced him with curt approval, which he was relieved to have.

"Brewing something?" she asked, seeing the small cauldron sitting under the window. He followed her eyes around and cursed under his breath at forgetting to hide it.

"No, Tom must have brought it in when I was out," he covered quickly, employing some of the skill learned dealing with Dursleys. "I wanted to let you know that I will be going to the Burrow now, so please stay out of sight, it might be distracting." He waved to the rat cage and the parchment, with a letter written out to Dumbledore on it. The apparition walked over to the letter, and read over it with a slight frown.

"Even if I am willing to give them to you, I am not certain you will be able to cast the complex secrecy charms the Order employs using my wand. Will you not stay Black's rescue until you have a proper wand of your own?" The memory-ghost wanted to convince him against the fool hardy confrontation with the rat animagus.

"Once I've caught him, I will call you. Please, stay out of sight until then," the boy answered with determination. The woman acquiesced and disappeared, knowing her efforts to stop him were futile. The godfather and godson were similarly stubborn in matters of the other's safety.

The boy abandoned his relaxed stance as soon as she disappeared. He ran around the room throwing everything in the backpack, resolving to put an expansion charm on it when he got a wand. The hastily written letter was committed to the fire, along with the rat cage. After the early expulsion from the alley, he wanted to take leave of Tom's hospitality before word of it got to him. His dead body was unceremoniously thrust on top of everything into the bag, unfortunately, it was already too full and a shock of black hair stopped the zipper from closing all way.

Quickly, he donned the only piece of wizard clothing he had bought, and brought the hood of the cloak down low. Placing a couple of galleons and a few sickles on the tea service he popped away to his destination.

It was late afternoon, and he wished that his timing had not been forced by the disaster in the Magical Menagerie. Ideally, he wanted to break into the ministry at night, but the count down had begun as soon as the ghost-memory had disappeared. There was hope that the aurors were too busy in Diagon Alley looking for the parseltongue. He settled down in wait around the corner from the innocuous looking telephone booth that led to the Ministry of Magic beneath.

It was over an hour later when it happened, an elderly wizard, dressed inexpertly in muggle clothes, entered the booth and requested entry into the ministry. Seeing him replace the receiver, Harry ran into the booth jumping onto the small platform descending into the earth. Before the gentleman could protest the intrusion, Harry unstrung a pouch and blew on the powder up at the man. The old man started coughing violently, and caught the attention of the wizards and witches in the lobby. The guard was staring out bored but straightened a bit when he saw the old man pass out over a small boy.

"Please, sir, help! My uncle's sick!" Harry yelled out to the wizard sitting at the security desk, making sure his face was covered by the hood. In seconds a crowd gathered around them with the security warlock trying to revive the old man. Slipping between the legs of the concerned crowd he ran to the end of the lobby where the lift was waiting. He was elated to see people had been attracted away from the lift to watch the commotion.

The golden grate moved aside to let him in and he entered quickly slamming the safety grill close against any one else. He pressed the button for Level Nine and calmed his breathing, preparing himself for the challenges that would come at the Department of Mysteries. The lift trundled down, broadcasting its travel by the grating sound of metal and chain; the noise and the inescapable place made him nervous.

Ding! The lift announced that it had reached the floor.

Adjusting the straps of the backpack he moved forward, only realizing it was Level Six when he reached the safety grill. A woman in gray robes was standing on the other side. Hurriedly he returned to his corner in the lift and pulled down the hood further. He could not help but notice how she reached for the call button for Level Nine, paused when she saw it was lit up and pressed it again.

Alarmed, he realized she was either an unspeakable or someone going to Court Room Ten. Keeping his face steadily down, he strained his ears for any sign of movement from her. The lift trundled down, and he hoped he was imagining the tension.

Another short 'Ding!' announced they had just passed Level Seven. The fear of being caught heightened and he wished she would just say something.

'Ding!' – Level Eight. Surreptitiously he pulled the stopper from one of the hidden vials, and dripped the potion on the lift floor. Then he heard it, the slight sound of movement as she turned to face him.

"Are you lost child? You should not be down here." It was clear she was attempting to sound helpful but her wariness was slipping through. "Show me your face, I'll help you," she continued, and this time sounded quite believable.

"No, thank you, I guess I am lost, I'll just go up to the lobby," he answered, hoping she would not ask to see his masked face again.

"Are you here with someone? I will take you to the floor they are on," she continued, stepping forward to the call panel, waiting for his answer.

"I'll go to the lobby and wait there, please you don't have to worry about me," he said, trying to sound confident and polite. The woman pressed the call button for the lobby, and turned. She watched him, trying to figure him out. Something was peaking out through his bag and she stepped back to get a better look. A cursed and cut miniature face looked back at her with dead eyes. An involuntary gasp escaped her lips and she slipped her wand down her sleeve.

"Can you show me your face, dear?" It was not a question, and the use of 'dear' sent alarms blaring in his head. He did not answer, preparing to drop a different colored vial. The witch raised her wand at him.

Ding! – Level Nine. The safety grill slid open, and he dived out, ducking under the petrifying spell she shot at him.

He landed on his stomach and whipped the vial into the lift. It smashed over the potion he had spilled earlier and with sound of crashing water the lift was filled with ice. The witch was trapped in the ice materializing out of the floor, her arm and wand outstretched, and her lips frozen mid incantation.

Only her eyes were moving and they were flashing in anger and confusion. The hood had fallen back and she had full view of the silver mask and the device on it. The boy climbed over the wave like form the ice had taken when it sprung from the floor. With adrenaline affected fingers he poured a clear spicy potion through her unresisting lips.

"Goodnight, dear!" he said lacing the word with insincere sweetness, and watched her slip into deep sleep. Only with the antidote could she be awoken. He relieved her of her wand and shut the safety grill which was having trouble sliding back into place. And he thanked the witch for pressing the button for the lobby earlier, as the lift rose away from the lowest level.

The adrenaline rush suddenly disappeared when he looked away from the lift and down the familiar hallway to the unassuming door. Behind that, seemingly, common wooden door had laid the prophecy that had taken the lives of his parents and sealed his fate, behind it lay the place he had lost his godfather to his own folly, and behind it was also the supposed power in him. It was strange design that the thread of the greatest truths and pains of his life could be found down the sepulchral length of this corridor.

The urgency spurred him on through the grief the place evoked and he ran down the hall. The door creaked open as he neared and he thought another unspeakable was coming through. Preemptively he shot a stunner but instead of the red beam the wand buckled in his hand and blue light from it decimated the opening door. For a dreaded moment he thought he had killed whoever was behind the door, but stepping over the debris he did not find anyone in the circular room. The witch's wand by all evidence did not suit him.

With a hiss a door to his left opened and torches lit up shining light out into the circular room. Curiously, he peeked through it to find wide stairs leading down. There was a strange sense of anticipation in the air that encouraged him to cross the threshold. Eagerly he ran down the stairs, his slapping heels echoing and disturbing the long held silence in the passage. The stairs led to a semi circular room. He was taken by the enormous double doors standing at the middle of the room, and scorch marks on the ground before them. The door parted as he shuffled up focused on the burn mark…lost in the knowledge that what he had seen was true. So he did not see the power he had come for reach out for him. It was not until he felt the cool comfort of being enveloped in it that he realized that the Power was around him.

It led him back in its room where it was the only light that pierced the stifling darkness, and he lost himself in the charged sensation. It felt as if every nerve was alight with power, and there was strength that gave him a kind of confidence he had never had before. The liquid-light absorbed through his skin and when he opened his eyes they were flecked with gold, shining brightly. With the aid of the power his consciousness spread beyond his usual senses and he could see the passage he had walked through, he followed it up the lift shaft and finally to the lobby. In his mind he could see and hear the minor crisis he had caused by freezing the lift. Wizards and witches were vanishing chunks of ice trying to get to the trapped witch. In another corner healers were helping the old man, and Aurors were standing around looking important.

Remembering his purpose, he brushed the rune on his wrist, feeling a doubled sense of anticipation from the power within him. The apparition of his teacher appeared swiftly, her ghostly wand held aloft. She spun on spot looking in all directions and found the seal of the doors, her eyes widened in fear.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice rolled like thunder. The force wave in the voice struck an unseen wall in the darkness and the foundations of the ministry shook. The memory stood physically unaffected but afraid of the power she heard, the voice that called was not only the child's.

"I-I, you know who I am, I'm Minerva McGonagall, are you Harry Potter?" she asked, gaining her composure quickly. The Power inhabiting him weighed her words and found no deception.

"Will you swear it? And swear everything you told me is true!" The force in his words struck viciously with accusation and she gasped stepping back, seeing rocky dust fall from above. She did not think to defy her charge possessed by the very power he was meant to wield. But no man had ever spoken to her in this manner, and she drew on her formidable strength.

"I swear on this shadow of consciousness and self that is mine that I am Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts, Sorceress Chieftain of the Order of the Phoenix, and at pain of oblivion I swear I have told Harry James Potter the truth as I know it," she declared, her head held high. She looked hard into the dual colored eyes of her charge, quietly calling for his true self to emerge. He continued to look back with barely suppressed anger; the enigmatic power multiplied and spread everything he felt.

The shaken wizards and witches in the ministry felt a heavy oppressive silence fall in their halls. They dared not speak or breathe too loud for fear of provoking the unseen threat. They stood frozen in their escape from the quaking underground building, and dreaded the lifting of the magic bearing on them, for in their bones they could feel that what would follow would be worse.

"So he wants me to save them, the weak sniveling bastards crawling around hiding in their homes and in the ministry. For this he sent me back?" he asked, suspiciously calm. McGonagall did not answer, knowing instinctively no answer would be good enough.

"Well, maybe if there is nothing to save he will leave me alone…what do you think?"

"Do not forget the innocents, Harry," McGonagall answered quickly, seeing rock dust begin to fall from the ceiling of the shaking room again. The words were barely out of her mouth when vengeful waves of magic struck outwards, the Power in the boy formed an unhindered medium between his emotions and his magic. The ministry quaked violently, and the many wizards and witches screamed in terror, flooing and apparating out, splinching themselves in panic. Like ants they poured out into the street above, barely escaping the cracking floors and walls.

"Do not debase the sacrifices of those who loved you by becoming a murderer, I implore you take this fight to the men who did this, do not be so callous with life, it is not for you to judge!" McGonagall overcame her fear and tried to bring the boy to his senses.

"I AM NOT A MURDERER" the voice reverberated up through the bowels of the ministry to the street above, opening fissures expelling his rage as primal cries. The apparition watched as the liquid-light flickered and fluctuated with the twisting emotions on the boy's face.

"No, you are not. Do not carelessly destroy them because of the wizards that harmed you, Riddle made the mistake of blaming all muggles for the crimes of a few-"

"If they didn't attack me, they sure as hell stood aside for the ones who did!" he snapped.

"And what of those who stood with you?" McGonagall countered.

"Thanks to Dumbledore they don't exist anymore, do they? So, it doesn't matter anymore."

"That is an unworthy thing to say and believe," she severely disagreed. "And if you can not see that, then I'm afraid we were wrong to care for you," her voice trembled, betraying her true emotion, but she stood stolid prepared for a scathing or petulant retort. But it did not come.

The boy took a deep breath and expelled it shutting his eyes, refusing to acknowledge that her words hurt him. To distract himself from his anger he spread his consciousness again and found the ministry in full panic. Over turned desks and chairs littered each floor, flagstones had heaved up out of their places and concrete walls were cracked. Wizards and witches were evacuating pell-mell. In the disarray one place attracted his attention: it was the Office of International Travel. A single clerk had just dashed away from the kiosk she occupied, leaving the shelves of port keys unguarded. It was the perfect time to escape without detection.

"We need to get away quickly," he spoke to the apparition, focused in his task. McGonagall sighed in relief hearing his childish voice instead of the one heavy with the terrible power of the room. The mysterious power withdrew from his body and his eyes returned to their normal color. For a moment he looked at the swirling substance unsurely, and then made up his mind.

"Thank you, I hope I can visit again." He gave it a small bow, feeling as if it were sentient. The room shuddered from the Power's delight, and he felt an alien sense of pleasure assuring him he had been well received. Without a backward glance he left the room, having found the answer he had come looking for.

In the skies above the hidden ministry the two phoenixes sensed the abomination after they had lost him by the cave. In lazy spirals they began descending, increasing speed gradually. Their avian red eyes scoured the panicked crowds for sight of him but sensed immediately that he was under ground. The stench from the dark sacrifice of an immortal was on him and they could not let the abomination escape them twice.

Like intertwined twisters of fire they smote the earth, their yellow wings were ablaze, flame trailed behind them, and rock, metal, concrete melted before them. They bored into the heart of the ministry, scattering the humans. Those who had had the privilege of having heard the phoenix song before knew it to be nothing like what they heard now; the twin song striking from the skies was a war cry, long heard after the hunting birds disappeared into gaping holes their passage formed.

In little time Harry Potter reached the circular room having jogged up the wide steps. He rushed to the destroyed door, but stopped abruptly, and turned around with singular purpose.

"Show me the Hall of Prophecies!" he commanded, wishing he was older, his childish body and voice was strange to him. The room cared not for the age of the voice that commanded it and spun, making the blue torches blur.

A door opened immediately when it stopped and he ran through it, not caring for the wondrous things around him. Easily he navigated through the aisles reaching his prophecy. The apparition behind him looked at the shelves with interest, as she had never entered the secret department before. He plucked the dusty orb from its place and made to place it in the bag. Unfortunately, there was the slight problem of his face peeking over the top at him. He shuddered at the dead eyes and carefully placed the orb in the hands of the corpse.

"Hold on to that mate, it's why you ended up like you did," he spoke to his miniaturized self.

"You are speaking to it," McGonagall pointed out.

"It is a 'he' and has a name," he corrected evenly, slinging the bag on his shoulders. She was pleased to hear the cheeky response, ignoring for the moment the likely indication that he was deranged.

"Of course," she said with perfect sincerity, and if he did not know her true views on the matter he would have believed her. It annoyed him, but he was thankful she did not bring up the fact that he had not trusted her.

Focusing the Office of International Travel in his mind he apparated five levels up. As he disappeared the phoenixes swept through the Hall of Prophecy melting the small glass orbs in their wake. They followed his smell to the door of the power, and received a challenge they were not prepared to meet when on an errand for their lord.

Office of International Travel

There were forms to be filled out for international travel, and port keys were sitting in pigeon hole shelves. There was a hole for each country and a few had their names lit up in gold lettering. From the little knowledge he had of the greater magical world he recognized them to be major centers.

'Wizard Enclave, Tsaritsyn, Russia' said one hole, and he dug in pulling out a wooden disc with the emblem of the British Ministry of Magic embossed on it. He was mildly surprised it was not something as ignoble as a used soup can, but then wizards liked to show off and it just would not do to enter another country holding a sock. There was a small scroll attached to it and he unfurled it to discover the key word to activate it.

It was then that he heard the phoenix cry for the first time and knew he was being hunted. The cries overwhelmed his sense and he stood rooted to the floor wondering what creature was coming. So swift were the enflamed phoenixes that he missed them enter through the doorway and only saw them when they dove for him. Coming back to the moment, spurred by the threat of imminent danger he apparated away to the other end of the room.

"ACTIVATE THE PORTKEY!" McGonagall yelled, running soundlessly by him. For a split second he was scandalized to see his strict teacher doing something as undignified as picking her robes up over her knees and running.

"I DON'T KNOW THE WORD!" he shouted over the phoenix cries, apparating as far as he could see, not trusting himself to pause to think of a place not in sight. In his third apparition they caught him, as one phoenix flashed ahead, guessing where he would appear.

The blast of heat from the magical fire of the phoenix form threw him on his back and dark spots danced in front of his eyes. They rose in the air and dived at him again, and he was too weakened to do anything. The magically powerful talons pierced his shoulders burning the flesh they touched, and he cried out as he was lifted and flashed into the skies above.

The phoenixes had never encountered something that did not bow to their mandate of Light, and so were caught unawares when the terrible power behind the eclipse rose to reclaim the boy. They were not yet out of its reach and so it took control of the child, having made him an even better medium of itself in their second meeting. His child hand grabbed hold of the talons piercing clean through his shoulders, and with strength inhuman snapped one talon on each leg. The phoenix dropped the boy shocked by the unprecedented sensation. And as before the power banished him away, disappointed by the loss of his presence, but pleased it had protected its rare source of entertainment. The phoenix healed near instantly and joined its twin brother to carry news of the patron the abomination had gained.

The burning sharp pain in his shoulders had oddly cooled, and he traced the wounds with his fingers softly. They were still tender but healing fast, he had expected to have two permanent holes if he survived. Finally, he looked around to see where he had landed, and was shocked to be sitting in the middle of the oft visited park in his neighborhood, inside police marked tape. He had returned to the scene of the crime, and there were quite a few people staring at him in shock. He imagined appearing out of thin air, with blood stains was unusual. Acting as if it were the most normal thing in the world, he stood brushing himself off and stepped over the lines, waving a good bye.

"Oi! Stop!" someone shouted, but they were too late. The young wizard in the child body had activated the port key and was even now hundreds of miles away.

_**Tsaritsyn, Russia**_

After a much longer time than usual Harry Potter crashed on hard floor. At once his ears were assaulted with unfamiliar sounds and the musty smell of the air. Keeping his head low he removed the mask and placed it in the bag, it had been seen by too many people. Still shook up by the attack of the phoenixes he took a few moments to calm himself. He looked around to see a small crowded room with one very bright light bulb hanging low from the ceiling. It seemed to hinder sight more than aid it. In desperate need of a wand, now that he had been attacked, he looked for someone who could help him. Shielding his eyes against the glare, he turned to one of the wizards who had arrived a few seconds after him.

"Do you know where I can find Gregorovich the wand maker?" he asked, hoping the man knew English.

"You come all way for Gregorovich wand?" the man asked in a higher voice than Harry was expecting from one of his bulk. "Come, I go to wizard's enclave, his shop is there."

"T-Thanks!" Harry gratefully followed him wrapping his arm around himself. Even inside it was cold. They walked out of the small room into a much larger atrium. He could see walkways spiraling up and around the floor levels of what he assumed must be the wizard's enclave. In a childish moment he stuck out his hand palm up to catch the falling snow and looked far above to see that the massive atrium of the gray building had no roof. Narrowing his eyes he searched for the colors of a phoenix, trying to figure out why he was attacked by two.

People walked by huddled in their thick cloaks. His guide led him up a dizzying array of gray steps. Harry tried his best to keep track of where he had come from, knowing he had to return. Reaching what he figured was the eighth floor of the gigantic structure, the man announced they had arrived, and his query was ten shops down that way. Thanking the man he hurried, looking over the railing at the mass of people below going back and forth.

Breaking from its stone surrounding a shop with a wooden façade appeared, he could not make out what was written but the lines of wands in the display was clue enough for him. He entered the shop feeling a gust of hot air. For a moment he thought the psychotic birds had found him, and spun around, tripping over his own feet and grabbed a nearby coat hanger for support. He heard someone yelling something. Soon he discovered it was he who was being yelled at, by a very disgruntled looking old man wearing what he could only assume was a wig.

"I'm sorry, I'm looking for a wand" Harry said hurriedly.

"Well ov' course, you came to my shop didn't you?" the man replied bad tempered, returning to his newspaper and easing back in his chair. Harry waited for a few minutes but then felt he should interrupt the man's perusal.

"Excuse me, I need a wand," he attempted.

"What? Now?" the man yelled from behind his news paper.

"Yes, please," he answered, completely off center because of the man's behavior. Suddenly, a measuring tape flew to him measuring him all over. It flew back to the owner who put down the paper to look at it with distaste.

"You go to aisle seventy, walk through, it will hit you," the wigged wand maker mumbled.

"Excuse me?" Harry asked, getting exasperated. After all the excitement, he just wanted to get a wand, and find someplace safe to sort things out.

"I said go to aisle seventy, walk through and the wand will hit you!" He pointed a gnarled finger behind him where Harry could see rows upon rows of shelves.

"Alright." Harry walked past the man who was lost in the paper and down the shelves. After searching for quarter an hour he found aisle seventy and entered the ominous looking place. On both sides of him shelves full of wand boxes disappeared into the dark ceiling, giving the look of continuing upwards forever. He walked through the aisle looking right and left at the dust and web covered boxes; uncomfortable being in a place like this so soon after Department of Mysteries.

About half way through he seriously started considering he was being had, and this was all a joke for the ornery wand maker. He picked up his pace to get out of the aisle when something hard and fast hit the back of his head. He was thrown forward by the impact, landing in the grimy floor. Losing his temper completely, he whirled around ready to chew out the wand maker.

Instead he found a harmless looking wand box. He looked around suspiciously but did not see anyone. The darker shadow on the floor that was the wand box lay inviting him. Inside he found a wand made of ash wood. It was smooth other than a groove twisting around the wand from the base to the tip. Feeling drawn to it, he grasped it and at once cool air whipped around him, white and blue light shot from the tip. The sense of control that came with having his own wand calmed him. However, the wand felt somehow wanting, and he waved it experimentally and realized he missed the kind of connection he had with his holly wand. Sighing, he submitted that he would always be a difficult fit, and the holly wand and he belonged together. Still, this wand had not cracked or buckled under his touch, so he returned to the wand maker with it.

The shop keeper was asleep in his chair, his wig askew and mouth hung open. Harry opened his bag of money and dug in for a few galleons, hoping to get away before the man's drool reached his chin.

"You can't have that wand!" the man was suddenly awake and glaring at the boy. He cut quite a sight with his wig half on.

"Whatever! How much?" Harry demanded impatiently.

"That wand cost me something." The man pulled his sleeve up to show deep scars that made the arm look like it had been crushed in some massive jaw. "That is a ten inch ash wand with snow gryphon feather. You know what a gryphon is? Do you know how rare a snow gryphon is?"

"No," Harry answered in a suffering manner, wanting to get away from the man and find a fortress to hide in.

"Ov' course no! Little shit! The great gryphon took my arm for its feather. I promise myself, I say: Vladimir Gregorovich if you sell this for less than twenty galleons your arm was nothing!" he spat, sending afore mentioned drool on the counter.

"Twenty galleons?! That's ridiculous, it's a wand, gryphon feather or not, it's your own fault for pissing it off. Ten galleons' all I'm offering and here it is." Harry slammed the money on the counter and bolted.

"HEY! COME BACK! I GAVE MY ARM FOR THAT WAND!!" Harry heard the man yelling but did not look back and ran winding in and out of the people. Being a ten year old going on eleven suddenly had its advantages when trying to get away in a crowd.

Given that Gregorovich could easily see him running down on the walkways, he ducked into a narrow shop that seemed to have a door at the other end leading out. Running through he found walkways going all around the building on the outside as well, without pause he went for the lowest level.

Almost a half hour's worth of dodging, ducking, and running later he was certain the wand maker would not find him. The most divine smells wafted from a street level eatery and he promptly entered the simple shop. A two person booth invited him and he collapsed into it, holding a stitch in his side. It was almost nightfall now, and he could not begin to think of all that had happened that day.

A harrowed looking waitress placed a bowl with some stew in front of him, and motioned him to eat up quickly. Unsure of what the hurry was, he did not care and voraciously finished the bowl, asking for seconds not too long after she had come around. The waitress gave him an odd look, and poured only half a bowl more and said some admonishing words which were entirely unintelligible per the language barrier.

The second helping went down slower, the hot stew warmed him and he felt his tensed body relax. Other customers were huddled in the small booths as well, similarly warming themselves. He felt a connection with the tired and cold accosted looking clientele. There was a world weariness about them that made him feel at home. So much so that he relaxed his guard and shut his eyes resting his head on the table. Before long he was asleep, snoring lightly to the amusement of the waitress and the cook in the back. The customers did not mind, it was not an unusual to see someone give in to exhaustion and catch a quick shut eye. They had indulgent smiles for the small boy, and left him alone.

An hour later he was shaken awake. He jerked away from the hand instinctively and pulled out the newly acquired wand. The waitress who had disturbed his slumber smiled at him and placed a finger on her lips gesturing him to stay quiet. Confused, he took the small glass of green drink she passed to him with a wink. She stood waiting for him to drink it. Caught between wariness of the sweet smelling drink and insulting the hostess, he erred on the side of politeness and drank deeply. The drink was impossibly sweet and left a bitter taste on the tongue, but almost instantly he was wide awake and more than a little light headed. She asked him something smiling knowingly. He assumed she was asking about the special kick the drink had, and smiled and nodded. She cleared his table, and jerked with her head to the door, presumably telling him it was closing time. As the only other customer was exiting through the door rather hurriedly, Harry put down two galleons and a few sickles, not realizing how heavily he was tipping.

Snow was still falling and it muffled the sound, making for a peaceful night. He breathed the frigid air, finding peace in the silence, ready to try and make sense of recent events. He turned back to fix the name of the eatery in memory for future reference but all he found was a blank stone wall. Surprised, he stepped back and looked at the other shops on the ground level to find that all had disappeared leaving only stone wall.

Before he could search more a chorus of howls interrupted his plans for a quiet night, and he caught sight of the full moon hanging in the night sky. "Merlin's balls in a vise! Just kill me already!"

Snow crunched under his feet and he stilled to quiet any noise he was making. His heart's quickened tattoo disturbed his frantic attempts to locate how far and in which direction the werewolves were. He strained his ears but could hear nothing more and so turned on his heel and rushed up the very steps he had run down.

As he reached the first level of the Wizard's enclave he realized he was alone. The many wizards and witches he had seen earlier were suspiciously absent. In fact, it seemed as if there never had been anyone disturbing the snow covered walkways leading around the massive building. He walked forward stepping onto the first floor trying to catch sight of any wizard or witch whose presence would allay his misgiving.

He did not see the thin fabric floating midair like a curtain between the stairs and the walkway. The near invisible curtain caught him and he was thrown off his feet, feeling as if he had been slapped hard. One moment he was carefully trying to spy life and the next he was on his back outside the towering gray building. The ash wand slipped in his hand automatically and he jumped up as fast as his untrained body allowed him. He whipped his wand around trying to find his attacker but found no one on the wet road. Other than some abandoned buildings on the stretch nothing could be seen.

Someone cleared their throat behind him and he ducked rolling sideways, simultaneously thrusting his wand under his other arm shooting a stunner. He did not hear a body fall and so shot another stunner in the same direction as he rolled to his feet finally making visual contact with whoever had been behind him. Standing against the gray building's stone wall was a highly unconcerned Minerva McGonagall. Her calm demeanor lasted only a moment because as soon as he laid his eyes on her he let lose a string of expletives even he did not know were in his vocabulary.

"Well I never!" the spectral memory gasped, coloring slightly. He was casting drying charms on himself and glaring at the woman spitting mad.

"Minerva! For the sake of Hecate's tits! There are bloody werewolves out here and every bloody witch and wizard's disappeared off the face of Russia, and you had to go and bloody sneak up on me, are you bloody enjoying giving me a bloody heart attack!" he shouted, unheeding of the noise he was making at the paling memory in front of him.

"Werewolves?" Minerva McGonagall asked carefully. "You must get inside the enclave, what are you thinking standing in the middle of the road?" she admonished angrily. Harry Potter just kicked the snow sending it harmlessly through the memory McGonagall. He was lamenting his inability to physically harm the woman when he saw her point over his shoulder and disappear.

A ghost of a boy much younger than him was sitting on the ground, trying futilely to play with snow that he could not touch. The little boy called out jerking his thumb up at a hitherto unseen sign. Harry squinted at it and the words in Russian morphed to English telling him that there was a curfew magically enforced when night fell. Cursing as silently as possible he sprinted to the one abandoned looking building in the distance, wishing he had refused the heady green drink.

The heavy snow slowed his movements and the building in the distance did not seem to get any closer. He tried to run harder sensing danger behind him. Alas, the building came up too late and he was stopped in his tracks by a low menacing growl. Sighing in defeat, he turned on the spot raising his wand, resolved to go down fighting. He did not see what he expected and it was this that made him drop his guard.

It was a man, tall and broad shouldered and old if the scraggly gray hair falling in braids was any indication. His face was cast in a shadow and he seemed to be content to measure up the boy with his eyes. It was these eyes that gave him his first warning that the man before him was something more than a man. For, the eyes glowed hideous yellow and he could practically feel the malevolence in them.

The powerful man raised his head revealing his face and Harry felt his blood run cold. The man did not have lips to hide the inhumanly long and serrated line of bared teeth. He could see the 'thing' foam at the mouth a little and it behooved him into creeping away walking backwards. The monster rumbled and spat, it raised its face to the moonlit sky and howled in delight at finding its prey.

Harry ran keeping the wand pointed at the beast which began slowly advancing and laughing. Harry did not stop even when the beast squatted preparing itself for something, and only had a heartbeat to react to what came next.

The man leapt a staggering distance with his hands stretched before him like claws. In midair he became an enormous scarred black wolf with an elongated jaw and the same glowing yellow eyes. Harry fell on his back bracing himself for the attack.

"_IMMOBILUS!"_ he cried, hoping against hope it would work. The monstrous wolf froze three feet above him in mid attack. It snarled and flailed, its reach quite close to the boy below him. Harry's guess that this was no ordinarily werewolf was confirmed, the wolf above him was more like a beast than a man, its eyes were yellow rather than black of a transformed werewolf.

"_ARGENTUM SPICULA!_" he cast and was shocked to hear a loud bang from his wand followed by uncountable silver projectiles shooting into the monster. The wolf howled in pain, its underbelly skin cracked red where the silver projectiles cut into it. Blood dripped down on Harry from the beast but he was too stunned by the power of his spell to notice. The one time he had cast it before only half a dozen projectiles had shot out.

The monster howled in his face and finally Harry was brought out from his shock, twice he hexed the monster, each time the wand recoiled, and blood showered on him. He crawled on his back from under the wolf still stranded midair, and horrified saw that it was not dying, that much silver would have killed a werewolf instantly.

The beast threw off the magic holding him in the air and fell on the ground digging the silver into itself more. The snow turned red from its cracked bloody wounds and Harry rushed to the building for sanctuary. He hurled himself at the boarded door thrice before blasting his way through with a spell. Frantically he repaired the door and magically reinforced it.

It was only then he looked around the abandoned building and figured it to be some sort of factory. He walked up wooden stairs leading to a mezzanine level that overlooked the floor below. Breathing raggedly he swiped his face trying to get rid of the viscous blood that he was covered in. His hands shook from fear and the adrenaline.

"What was that? What the hell was that?" he muttered to himself rubbing his arms for warmth. Hoping for answers he jabbed his wand at the rune on his wrist. "Did you see that?" he asked giving the memory-ghost no time.

"What happened, are you injured, were you bitten?" she walked around him trying to check him over with her intangible fingers.

"No, I killed it, whatever it was. Some demonic kind of werewolf, it was in human form, on the _full moon! _And it can change, like an animagus!" he explained breathing raggedly. "No lips, only long sharp teeth."

"I do not know, I've never heard of any such thing, werewolves that can change on the full moon are a myth!"

Harry shrugged off the backpack and it fell on the wooden floor with crash. He jumped knowing it could not have been the bag that made that sound…something was below him! He could hear it moving on the creaking floor boards. A wordless spell and the bag shrunk and flew into his pocket. McGonagall disappeared waving him to run.

He moved quietly towards the darkened part of the floor in the back, hoping there was a door that led to some safety. He crept holding his breath painfully, all the time waiting for the tell tale growl. He was almost to the back of the building where he could see two stair cases leading up to another floor and a door that hopefully led to a safe room. He quickened his steps, hurrying, and did not see the hole. His leg went through with a resounding crash, quickly followed by an unmistakable howl. He roughly pulled his leg up heedless of the scratches and cuts the sharp points of the broken wood tore in him. He did not get a chance to stand before a man similar to the one before jumped bodily through the floor to land in front of him baring his serrated teeth.

This man looked as old as the one dead outside but was leaner and shirtless, proudly displaying his marred chest. He did not wait like his comrade and brought both fists down like a hammer on Harry's wounded shoulders, throwing him through the floor to the ground below. The boy screamed feeling his back flare in numbing pain. The monster growled crouching on the edge of the Harry Potter sized hole above.

This time having fought one of them he was more angry than afraid, and worked through his pain to mark the beast with his wand. The beast leered at him and cackled, unknowingly giving him the resolve he needed to ignore the pain.

"_ARGENTUM LANCEA!_" he shouted, enjoying the whine of the shining silver spear that cut through the air at the beast. The monstrous man jumped vaulting over the spear easily and landed on all fours in front of him. In a flash he grabbed the boy by his neck and slammed him in the wall behind slowly crushing his wind pipe. Its teeth were parted under the lipless mouth in an expression of hideous delight. Harry felt pounding in his head and his vision began to darken, he kicked uselessly at the monster and could feel his tongue begin to swell.

As coherent thought was leaving him he weakly motioned to his fallen wand that surprisingly floated into his hand. Unable to vocalize the infrequently used spell he attempted to cast it wordlessly for the first time. The silver spear pierced and passed through the beast's side. Other than a trickle of blood dribbling from its mouth it made no motion to show it was hurt. Harry cast the spell again as the monster slammed him in the wall a second time. This time his wand was placed right over the heart and the spear pierced its mark and became stuck, its sharp end having skewered the killer's heart and it's base digging into Harry's ribs

The beast fell to its knees but kept its grip on Harry's neck. The boy tried to free himself clawing at the beast's arm weakly. Slowly the dark spots dancing in front of his eyes coalesced and the last thing he saw before passing out was silver fluid crawl down the beast's nostril.

Several hours later Harry Potter came to himself with a throbbing headache. He opened his eyes and gasped, the involuntary reaction exerted his abused throat and neck and he vowed not to do that again soon. The beast was in front of him, his hand clenched around his throat in a super human grip even in death. He tried to breathe painlessly by taking shallow breaths, looking away from the glassy yellow eyes boring into him. He tried to push away from the dead monster but his small body aided him none. He shifted a little to grab his wand and felt the base of the silver spear dig between his ribs and knew he had managed to break one at least.

He put his wand against the beast's arm and muttered a severing hex. The blue hex was weak and made a shallow cut. He muttered the hex again and again, slicing through skin and muscle tissue, with each hex blood and fiber spatter sprayed the wand hand. The stench of blood and refuse from death was overwhelming, but the constant pressure on his neck anchored him to continue the amateur amputation.

"Reducto!" he whispered, his voice hoarse, and with a slicing crack he cut through the bone. The arm holding him bent away enough that he could shuffle away from the wall and stand. Another six hexes and the arm was free of the beast's body, and now hung from Harry's neck, still refusing to let go.

His hands free and arms hurting from exhaustion, Harry tried to pull the severed arm from its grip on him. One strong pull and the pointed claws of the beast scraped his neck. He stopped, his mind a sudden blank, terrified that if the claws broke skin he may become cursed with whatever these creatures were. He resigned to leave the clawed hand around his neck until he gained enough magical strength to think of something.

He stumbled away from the body, unable to be in the same room with the stench and sight of what he had done to the beast. His back screamed at him in protest and his ribs shifted uncomfortably. His dry and bruised throat begged release from the claw around it, but he could do nothing and felt a ridiculous urge to call for help.

He searched for water in desperate need to quench his thirst and clean his face. The door at the mezzanine level led to a kitchen and he celebrated in his mind jogging up to the sink. He turned the rusty knobs and thrust his hands under the tap for the water that did not come. Either water had stopped flowing through the building a long time ago or was frozen in the pipes. Slumping over the sink and breathing with difficulty he kept telling himself not to lose it. Unbidden a memory of his best friend came to him.

He and Ron Weasley were gathering water bottles and placing them in their traveling trunks to ensure they had enough for their journey. Hermione stood between them tapping her foot and frowning. The boys with agreement formed through years of being friends ignored her, resolved to delay whatever lecture she had in store for them. It was not long before she huffed as preamble to their telling to, and asked them if they were wizards. Feeling a slight on their manhood both had whirled on her when she promptly sprayed them in their faces with a water charm.

Harry grinned at the memory feeling a painful mix of happiness and grief. He turned his wand to himself, casting the water charm wordlessly and enjoyed the cool liquid sooth his bruised throat. The cold wind in the drafty building hindered him from cleaning himself fully. He only suffered through the biting cold to wash the blood off of his face.

Thirst slaked, he stood in the disused kitchen trying to decide between leaving the building to find a place of safety and leaving the little safety the building _did_ provide. His thinking was interrupted when he heard a gurgling scream cut through the night. The small window above the sink showed him a man who looked to be an auror from the ministry, dragging himself back in the snow missing a leg, and leaving a bloody trail where the leg should have been attached to his body. Little hope he had that the British auror on Russian soil had nothing to do with him. The auror was aiming his wand at three monstrous wolves, the kind Harry had already seen. From this vantage point he was truly able to see the size of the creatures. The leader, he reckoned, easily measured up to the size of his half-giant friend.

Even as he saw, the leader of the small pack leapt at the young Auror and smashed his massive jaws around the auror's head wrenching it off like a corkscrew. Harry threw up in the sink before him keeping his eyes glued to scene below. A fountain of blood erupted from the auror's neck and the wolves howled in triumph, Harry thought that it was over but he was wrong. The other two wolves sauntered up the prone body and sank their teeth into the torso, and with ease of breaking bread, between them they ripped the body down the spine. Harry shuddered at the sight and clenched his stomach unwilling to throw up anymore.

The leader shifted into his human form with the head of the auror in his hands and pointed to the very building Harry was in. The other two growled something back gesturing with their paws at the auror's body. Whatever was said infuriated the lead wolf who reached for the closer subordinate and clawed it across the face sending it sprawling. It was enough warning for the two to follow the smell of their comrades and find them.

Harry knew they were coming but could not look away from the leader, who raised the auror's head holding it up from his hair. He watched in morbid curiosity and recoiled when the monster tore into the dead man's face with its razor teeth and began to chew. It looked as if its yellow eyes glowed brighter with every tear and crunch.

Harry ran, no longer concerned with the claw and half arm dangling from his neck. He was on the second floor and could see no way out but the one before him. He ran as fast as he could and whipped his wand forward yelling _REDUCTO!_ The large window at the end of the hallway blew outwards and a moment later he launched himself out of it, falling with the glass, his arms flailing in the air.

"_ARRESTO MOMENTUM!"_ he intoned harshly, attempting the spell for the first time. At once the pace of his descent slowed and he dropped two stories down on his feet comfortably. Feeling elated by the perfect spell he sprinted to the next building in sight pressing one arm to his ribs.

The excitement at his escape quickly vanished when he heard twin howls of rage. He turned to see one black wolf leap from the window he had broken and land running after him. The wolf was much too fast and Harry knew he would never out run him. So he stood his ground feeling much more confidant than when he had faced the other two wolves, yet the fresh memory of what they had done to an auror tested his courage.

"_ARGENTUM SPICULA! ARGENTUM SPICULA! ARGENTUM SPICULA!_" he shouted tearing his throat. The demonic wolf leapt and rolled many feet in the air, clearing the first two bursts displaying its awesome power. The third hex caught it in its open jaws and Harry saw the silver sharp projectiles slice through the monster's tongue and become embedded in the roof of its mouth. It roared in pain and rage and came only that much stronger at the nineteen year old wizard in a ten year old body.

Harry tried to dodge but the heavy snow slowed him and the beast's massive body was too large to avoid. It clawed him from shoulder to hip on his back, slicing into his small body and cutting through his spinal cord as if it were nothing but an unsupported thread. The boy lay face down paralyzed, he knew he should feel pain, he knew he should be screaming, he wanted to scream but he could not. He waited for the monster to bite into the back of his neck, maybe removing his head as he had seen its leader do but all he heard was the beast's pained whining and howling. A few minutes later the wolf entered his vision, not to eat him but fall dead, it's great jaws open showing its enemy the projectiles that had spread their silver poison into it's brain.

Vindictively he laughed in his mind and swore at the beast, still unable to move. He did not feel his exposed back knit itself and the spinal cord reconnect, with the aid of the liquescent power imbedded in him. Out of his line of sight, the dead wolf's comrade watched enraged the symbiotic magic healing the boy's back. And even if he could have seen the beast, he was too lost in his own mind laughing spitefully at Dumbledore's failed plan to resurrect him and save Britain, to care. He relished in imagining the Headmaster's face if he ever realized what had happened.

The second wolf roared in the boy's ear breaking into his thoughts and his ear drum. Harry saw the wolf above him and felt his carefully nursed hate and rage bubble. Thinking of Dumbledore had stirred the volatile memories inside him. He thrust his wand and arm into the open jaws of the roaring wolf that still had the auror's pink flesh caught in its teeth, and roared in response.

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!_"

The wolf fell stacked over the body of its comrade and Harry felt hollow. He pulled his hand out of the monster's mouth and wondered how he was moving and why he could not before. Too exhausted to care and knowing the pack leader was still alive, he disillusioned himself and began crawling away from the two bodies. The snow was once again his enemy as he could go no where without leaving a trail.

The moon had traveled the sky since the last time he saw it. He guessed it was very late night or beginning of early morning. The cold temperature and the sharp hot pain in his body made it impossible for him to get away. He crawled toward the shadowed wall of the house he was heading towards, telling himself it was better than lying in the open. And so he propped himself against the wall, invisible to most things and kept his wand pointed ahead of him - waiting.

The wait was long enough that he had begun idly wondering if he was more likely to die of hypothermia than mauling by demon werewolf. Finally, in the distance he saw the leader arrive, it had two bodies on his shoulder that it dropped by the two bodies lying in between the buildings. It regarded them disinterestedly, polishing off the meat from a large bone it was carrying in the other hand.

Harry could see blood staining its scraggly braids and knew with certainty that the bone and meat was of the Auror. The beast threw the bone at the pile of its dead pack and spat growling in a guttural language. It then turned towards him, as if it knew all along where he was. Harry tensed and gave up all pretense of hiding; he jerked his wand under and thrust it forward in the motion for the spell. Shouting the incantation in his head he watched in satisfaction the silver spear fly true thirty yards to the monster.

This beast did not leap or roll, or make any attempt to avoid it. The spear struck it in the chest right next to its shoulder. Calmly, the beast pulled out the silver spear even as it burned the palm of its clawed hand, and dropped it on the snowy ground. Harry could see the ugly wound close up leaving only slightly cracked red skin behind. The beast lumbered towards him, its claws stretched.

Harry shot three spears in quick succession, the beast batted away two and the one that pierced its leg it removed just as it had with the first one. With prowling leaps it reached his hiding place. Harry thought of Voldemort, of Snape, of Bellatrix, he willed himself to delve into the hate and cursed the unforgivable, feeling the emptying rush as the green spell rocketed.

The monster side stepped the curse and watched it pass by, the green light illuminated its leer. Harry tried to forget the flesh hanging from its teeth was a human's. The monster thrust his left clawed hand straight into its unseen prey and lifted him off the ground, the prey nothing more than a rag doll in its claw. The disillusionment spell fell and he stared at the claw penetrating his chest in disbelief not registering the pain.

The monster found the claw of one of its pack around his neck and laughed in amusement. Roughly it pulled it off, enjoying the bloody scratches the dead claw left behind. It leaned in and licked the blood flowing out of them to Harry's horror and disgust.

The beast watched the life blood flow out of the little boy in its grasp and enjoyed the feeling of impending death in its hand. It stared into the green eyes, hungrily anticipating the moment the light left them. The boy had been shaking but suddenly stilled, the beast rumbled in satisfaction and opened its mouth to bite into the prey's face. Its second meal of the night was not as docile as it thought. The blood of the child in its hands began boiling and crept up its arm, devouring _its_ flesh instead. The beast jerked back its hand, trying to rid of the vengeful blood. The child looked through foggy eyes, holding the gaping wound in his chest, at the beast's arm being eaten away.

"Abomination!" the beast snarled, and howled to the moon. Its cry was returned by a phoenix song and the boy felt hope – though it was a false hope. A thin bald man appeared, with the two phoenixes resting on each shoulder. The blood loss and the pain fogged the mind of the boy and he could not see clearly, but he thought the man was as yellow skinned as the birds, with the same fiery eyes. The man dismissed the beast with a glare, which slunk its massive frame into the shadows to see what became of the boy.

"Harry Potter…to evade both the light and the dark is no mean deed, but for one of your arrogance perhaps it is. Did you think we would not see you transgress time and fate?" The bald man strode up to him and with a wave of his hand, the wound was healed. "Filth, you disgust me, do you even realize how base you are that both I and consciousness of the dark sent our servants after you. No more, I banish you fro –"

The bald yellow man's tirade was interrupted. "You can not blame him, he died, it was I who performed the ritual," McGonagall spoke steadily, willing to bear full responsibility. Harry heard her defending him, but the fog in his brain would not lift, and his limbs were listless.

"And so you continue to interfere, your soul pays the price as we speak. And so will this boy, what right did you have to destroy what had passed? Do you believe that only you, your conflict existed on this realm? Within mere hours you negated billions of struggles and lives, be gone ghost."

"You can not banish him, he is the prophesied champion of light and he is innocent!"

"Hold your tongue, woman, I can smell the taint of the forbidden passage on him, and I am the voice of the light, I know who champions us!" The man stepped forward and placed his fingers on the boy's brow over his fevered eyes.

"If you banish him, you betray him, it will haunt you, you can not turn your back on a fated champion. Do you dare forsake him?" McGonagall put her shimmering body in front of the thin man. In answer he blew on her and she disappeared, forced away by his power.

"For you crime against time, and this world, and its souls I banish you Harry James Potter! May you rot for all eternity!"

Searing pain flared in his eyes and darkness took him.

When the sun rose, only a ghost of a small boy was found, playing pathetically with the bloody snow he could not touch. And by him sat an aged sorcerer, who had seen and borne the cost of twain ages of war. The depth of his knowledge and years of experience failed to construct the events that led to the disappearance of the boy he had hidden a near decade ago. So he sat, watching the little ghost play in the blood of the boy-who-lived.


	6. Chapter 6

A.N. This is the latest chapter of _The Binding_. Sort of an in between chapter as far as plot goes, but several obvious things that will be important later on.

RECAP:

"For you crime against time, and this world, and its souls I banish you Harry James Potter! May you rot for all eternity!"

Searing pain flared in his eyes and darkness took him.

When the sun rose, only a ghost of a small boy was found, playing pathetically with the bloody snow he could not touch. And by him sat an aged sorcerer, who had seen and borne the cost of twain ages of war. The depth of his knowledge and years of experience failed to construct the events that led to the disappearance of the boy he had hidden a near decade ago. So he sat, watching the little ghost play in the blood of the boy-who-lived.

_**Path of the Forsaken**_

Red sand in a dark desert screamed around him, keeping him blinded and bereft of any sense of where he was. The burning pain in the eyes gave way to reminder of wounds in his shoulders. The liquescent power was a realm or space too far to heal his body – he was on his own. So he stayed curled up on the ground, his head buried in his arms, hiding from the sand storm beating him.

Many, many hours later, through tormented sleep and fevered delirium he awoke to the storm having passed. It was a land of near pitch darkness with cracked and parched earth, and no sign of the sand that even now intruded on every inch of his body and clothing. On spot, he whirled and peered in every direction, fearing he would see the storm lying in wait for him to dare raise his head.

There was no sign bearing evidence of anything but the cracked earth rolling forever. His shoulders ached as did the massive healed over wound in his stomach. Through the hazy memory he recalled the yellow man banishing him, and wondered if he had been told where to. Searching his body he found the ash wand and drew comfort from its presence. Once again magic slaked his thirst and gave him the strength to stand to his feet. Without thought he began walking, ignoring the physical pain in favor of the memory of the man with burning avian eyes.

"Banished," he said the word out loud, tasting it like the dirt in his mouth. His feet led him aimlessly, as he tried to comprehend the fact that he had been condemned for crimes Dumbledore committed. He had been sentenced despite McGonagall's defense of him. The truth did not matter to the light, it had abandoned him. Old buried doubts of self worth seeded by the Dursleys crept up like weeds. Where in the past he had covered them by the need his friends had of him, to save them, and in doing what was right, now there was nothing which propped his defenses.

At the same time determination forged lying in the cot in the cupboard to not give in, to not let them win surged. With that one thought and the agony in his recently torn and healed insides he trudged forwards looking for shelter.

Two days passed but no sun rose or light appeared to bear evidence of the time. Only the returning and disappearing storm of red sand marked the passage. The young wizard trapped in a child body crawled in his chosen direction, afflicted with hunger he did not know how to satiate. Not for the first time he wished he had had his last year of transfiguration and learned to conjure food.

It was time to set aside his desire for solitude. "Minerva," he called her name tiredly. "Minerva," he repeated, and tapped his wrist with the wand. The echo of his teacher appeared looking distraught.

"Oh! Dear," she exclaimed quietly, seeing the vast land. "I promise you, Harry, they can not do this. There will be a reckoning, they will come for-"

"Minerva," he interrupted, and she quieted hearing him use her familiar name. "Can you teach me how to conjure food?" he asked her calmly, looking towards the lighter part of the sky he had just found in the distance.

"Merlin! Can you not see what has happened?" she asked in a pitying manner.

"I'm hungry. Can you teach me how to conjure food?" he questioned in return in the same quiet distant voice.

"Yes, I can. You were wounded; I do not know if you know what happened." She adopted an aloof tone copying his manner.

"I know what happened," he muttered. "I fought for the light. And it banished me here. Now, I'm hungry!" He turned his defiant face to her. She stood uncertain for a moment then finding her ghostly wand she began teaching him.

Minerva McGonagall watched her pupil conjure a misshapen loaf of bread and a glass of juice. Her lessons were short and almost grudging for he never had enough focus or power to attempt the spell work; the storms took away much his physical and magical strength. Albeit hunger is a powerful motivator and he had advanced admirably given his limitations.

Once summoned, she stayed by his side providing the little light she could in the dreary unchanging land, and company in the silence. She had witnessed the terrible sand storms that came without warning and left without a sign, except the cost they drew from the small boy.

Conversation was sparse; he had refused any discussion of his banishment or what was to come next. When the storms would abate, he would simply begin walking towards the small bit of sky in the distance that was lighter than the rest.

It was as if he was clutching to the silence for strength. She had seen men break like this before; she had seen them harden inside themselves when their loss became too great. It was their last resistance before the wound left behind by other men or circumstance would bend them and break them.

The boy's skin was scratched and dry, he had lost even more weight in the time it had taken him to learn to conjure simple foods. So bravely he would stand against the storm when it came howling. Straight backed and wand held in front of himself, a clear green shield shimmering in between him and the elements. Some times he lasted longer than others, but the storm always won, blasting him off his feet, tearing through his magic and scraping his flesh with calloused fingers. Eventually he would have to cover his head and face in defeat and curl into himself waiting for it to pass.

The pain and insults on his body coupled with those on his soul slowly were undoing him, his resolve was worn. And she could only watch in the quiet, waiting for him to fall, hoping that once he did he would rise stronger. Not much longer, she thought, the next time the storm comes it will wear him away into dust.

The thin boy with hollow cheeks looked at her suddenly, as if having heard her mind. Then just as suddenly he looked away behind him from where the storm always appeared.

"Can you hear that?" he asked. McGonagall's specter began to say no when she heard it as well.

Out of the cracked earth smoke rose, permeating an oily smell and on its heels multitudes of three foot long centipedes crawled out. Their many legs clicked in a frightening cacophony as they rushed towards the wizard. He took a few hurried steps back, unsure if they were after him but soon it was undeniable, they were following him.

Quickly he apparated back but they seemed to swarm up through the earth wherever he touched. They were lying in wait under the crust, surging only when they felt the pressure of his weight. He fixed the furthest point he could see in his mind and apparated again. Looking back he saw a mass of beetle black boiling out of the earth. He had seen many wicked looking creatures in his schooling, and otherwise, so these did not alarm him individually but the sheer number of them was more than a threat. With certainty he knew these were flesh eaters, anything else would be too much good luck.

Hot sharp pain lanced through his leg. Screaming he shook the leg on which a two foot long centipede had latched itself. It was even now burying its purple pincers in his thigh.

"INFLAMARE!" he shouted. The flame spread much more than he had hoped and did not affect the fiend. More of the insects crept out running towards him and in sudden inspiration he apparated focusing singularly on only bringing his body with him. It worked! He appeared fifty yards away, naked and free of the attacking creature. Blood, however, flowed freely from the eye shaped wounds on his leg. The clothes he summoned and as soon as the bundle met his hand he apparated again, already feeling the earth underfoot begin to move.

Fire was always a sure weapon against dark creatures but these were not affected and he was tiring from apparating. Something else was happening to him, his eyesight was beginning to swim and his appendages felt disconnected yet strangely sensitive. The culprit was no doubt what was left behind in the row of eyelet wounds running symmetrically down his leg.

His vision turned cloudy and like a rock he fell heavily to the ground. No longer did he see the desert or his attackers but second after second of the times he had been cursed and tortured played out and he felt the pain as if it were fresh. His unbridled scream cut through the noise of the centipedes, and they circled around him immediately silenced. In opposing circles they moved swaying slightly in rhythm to his screams. From afar it would have seemed as if with every agony filled declaration a ripple went through the black lake of the creatures.

Locked by the poison of the creature, Harry experienced pain with blinding clarity and was unable to mount any resistance against the unrelenting and sharp memories. The child body flopped on the hard earth reacting to blows and hexes endured long past but the real injury this time was to the mind. Contorted fingers gouged the hard earth and the creatures swayed to the hiccupping screams and moans.

McGonagall appeared in midst of the strange concert and startled the creatures. To them she appeared to be something far more fearsome than what she truly was. They fled before her mistaking her for beings that fought within the damned cavern, and were not commonly in the desert.

"Harry! Can you hear me?" She fell on her knees and tried to steady him with her hands. They passed through him to her dismay and she could only call out to him. By her own reflected light she saw the purple venom mixed in blood trickling out of his leg. His eyes rolled and he thrashed violently and did not respond to her. She knelt by him helplessly, afraid for him.

His threshold for pain was high and he did not fall unconscious for an agonizingly long time. Alas, in this instance his strength turned into a curse, and his mind was unable to protect itself with its natural defense. The venom which would have killed any other creature failed to bring that end to its host yet crippled him to a degree anyway.

McGonagall's specter waited anxiously for the boy to wake up. He had fallen unconscious with his eyes open and if it were not for the steady rise and fall of his chest she would have thought him dead. There was mercy in that the sand storm did not come at its usual hour and she hoped they had finally distanced themselves from where it was wont to rage.

When he awoke he looked about himself dreamily, purple fluid hung in the corner of his eyes like tears ready to fall. The spectral memory sighed in relief at seeing him awake but soon had another worry to contend with.

"GHOST!" the boy exclaimed and scrambled back staring at her wide eyed. McGonagall was struck speechless by his reaction. He peered at her confused and repeated the word 'ghost' with much less alarm.

"Harry?" she began slowly but it made him back away from her while looking around nervously. The ash wand fell as he stumbled and he stared at it confused as well, but then quickly grabbed it with a jerk of recognition.

"Where are we?" he asked, then unsurely added "…Who are you?"

"Oh! Dear!" She sighed and began to answer when he spoke again.

"Professor?" he asked and then grabbed his head with a moan of pain. "What's happening?"

"I'm not sure; you were bitten and were in considerable pain. Do you remember me now?"

"Yes, but where are we? What happened?" he asked still holding his head.

"What do you remember last?" she asked urgently.

"I – I...legilimency, possessed," he grunted out the last word doubling over. She called out to him and he took a few steadying breaths before regaining his feet. "Professor?" he asked again as if he hadn't realized she was there.

"What do you remember last Potter?" she firmly ordered. "You must focus!"

"Scrimgeour's men, on the cliff, they've caught up with us…Ron…oh! God! Professor, Ron's dead-" he chocked a sob before continuing. "The bastards, they petrified Hermione, she was going to fall off the edge, he saved her but they stunned him and he slipped…" Two purple droplets fell from his eyes, and he stared out sightlessly. McGonagall had heard the story from Pomfrey…it had been nearly a year ago it had happened.

"You remember nothing of what has happened since?" McGonagall was aghast at the idea. He shook his head 'no' confirming her fear.

"Listen carefully, you must concentrate and try to remember, try and remember what I will tell you. Do you understand?"

"Yes." He had one hand clamped on the eyelet wounds on his legs but was giving her his full concentration. She began the tale and asked him if he remembered anything at every important juncture but he recalled nothing and was increasingly skeptical.

Eventually she stopped asking and just told the story. It was not too long before she noticed the blank look on his face.

"Hello," he greeted in a very small voice when she took notice of him. There was once again no recognition in his eyes, and his entire physiognomy showed that he was not the confident boy she knew.

"How old are you dear?" she asked, fearing his answer would prove her suspicion true.

"I'm ten Ma'm." He looked a little scared. McGonagall wiped her face in worry.

"Just lie down, it will pass," she said, giving up on the idea of him remembering anything for the moment. The boy obeyed lying down but kept his eyes on her, oddly with more curiosity than fear.

These moments of partial amnesia were interspersed with memories of torture and grief overwhelming his mind. When lucid the scepter would exhort him to continue moving, to distance him from the creatures and the storm that had not returned.

The banished wizard's plight became bleaker now that he could only remember how to cast magic and conjure food in short bursts. Slowly and surely the constant running and hunger was leading him to starvation.

The storms did not return, neither did the creatures but the barren land and the poison left behind in the body were enemies enough. On his hand now he wore the simple wedding ring that he had freed from his older body. It was the ring that had made him remember everything for the first time in weeks after he had been poisoned and now he kept it close in case he needed it again.

His childish fingers played with the ring while he contemplated it sadly. Not once had he looked at the band and thought of love, joy or happiness. It was always a shield against complete abandonment and desperation, a final surety, that in the end he would at least have her and she him. It had truly scared him how she had broken after Ron's death. Her secret insecurities and fears had poured from her in torrents of confession, and he had held her, his own pain overwhelmed by that of his best friend. For weeks her eyes had haunted his steps and she followed him like a wounded shadow, trembling when she would lose sight of him.

And then that fateful day, when he returned from a confrontation too late, needing her help, only to find her incapacitated by panic. He had coaxed her, while the curse tormented him, to cast the spells he was too injured to. It had been difficult to deceive both her and himself that he would never leave her, that he would return whenever he left her side. The prophecy marked him to be the bane of the most powerful wizard alive, no logic would accept the empty promises of his safety he whispered to her, and they both knew it. So in frustration he yelled at her to marry him, to be bound in that covenant that would give each an undeniable claim over the other. Before dusk they were husband and wife, and he saw her stand confidant for the first time in months.

Little did he know then that it would be this covenant that would become the buttress of his waning will to not leave the ungrateful magical world to its fate. So they had locked their lives with each other, in loyalty and affection, if not love. It was enough to have the other, when the night fell and ideas of greater good and righteous deeds were not enough to keep the fear, disappointment and uncertainty away.

The ring brought him no comfort now. The hope that used to course through him at its rough touch was shattered. Though, it was a symbol of at least one who had been truly loyal to him, so he kept it. Out of desperation and anger he finally opened the tome he had been carrying since his resurrection in hope of anything that could help him.

When he did remember everything of where he was and what had happened to him, his mind was filled with the memories invoked by the poison and any clear thought was lost. Desperately he would attempt to focus his mind elsewhere, outside of himself, trying to ignore his heart and body screaming at him that he was cursed, in pain, had lost another dear one…

At once he needed something that would dull the past like time and forgetfulness did, and yet restored the ability to retain memory that now kept slipping. Twice before he had taken to loudly reciting every shield spell, every potion ingredient he could think of, in an attempt to think of anything other than his past.

Memory was creeping away from him even as he snapped open the gilded cover of _The Hidden and Forbidden _and found nothing, only blank pages were bound in the tome. He went to the end of the book but as he turned pages he could not find the end of the book, magically more and more blank pages showed up.

Clawing pain in the corners of his eyes reminded him the poison was at work and soon his true consciousness would be lost – McGonagall had explained his situation in these rare moments of total recall. So with that sense of urgency he turned the blank pages with no end in sight.

"Quaint is it not for something so dangerous?" the spectral memory commented with no amusement he would expect if Dumbledore had said the same thing. "The first part of the book is on hidden knowledge.

You must put your hand or wand on a blank page to see its contents. Perhaps it judges you and reveals what it will. Perhaps it senses your knowledge and power and so shows you what you need next. At the time I possessed it I neither cared nor had the time to unravel the mystery," she explained. He nodded in understanding and firmly placed his palm on an arbitrarily chosen page.

His hand sank into the page and he pulled it back in surprise, leaving behind an imprint. The fine imprinted lines of his hand squiggled and pages turned of their own accord, soon pages filled with writing and diagrams appeared.

Blearily he squinted at the legend on top of the page and read _Rowena's Dilemma_. Behind him the spectral memory drew a sharp breath.

"That discipline is legend, Harry, she lost her sanity to this…no good will come of it!"

"What is it? I can't…read," he grunted out shutting his eyes against some memory of torture.

"Perfect memory of everything you have lived. Rowena lost her self to this discipline, she was unable to forget any of her trials and grief, yet no happy memory was dulled either, or so the legend is."

"Good, then it is better than what I have right now, I can't keep forgetting who I am or what's happened."

"Rowena Ravenclaw was a master of psychic magic and mental defense, you are wounded, and this is foolish!" the spirit spoke softly but with conviction. The boy was bent over the book with his hand thrust in it in perfect stillness. A low moan escaped his lips.

"I'm-losing-my-mind!" he grunted through his pain. "This is my chance!" he shouted over the memories in his mind. "When I forget, tell me to open this book!" he told her with difficulty.

"I will, now let go before you are hurt more," she advised. His eyes dilated and his jaw slackened. For a while he was frozen that way and then he shook his head as if he was waking.

"Professor?!" he asked, and she simply nodded.

"Mr. Potter, you have suffered a very dark curse, the only counter to it is in that book. Please, read the pages under your hand."

"What-"

"I know you are confused but there is no time for questions, Potter. Read that and learn it, your life depends on it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Ma'm." The boy with the memory of only his fourteen year old self obeyed, spurred by an earnest need inside him. As was her duty she watched over and taught the boy best she was able and led him unrelentingly away from the lands of the storms and creatures.

The discipline had Ninety-nine spells, seven marks that could be taken on the body to aid and trigger the spells, several ways to make artifacts to put the user into a trance in which they could recall everything they needed to. But the highest form of the discipline was locked in the spells that when perfected and remembered required no body marks or artifacts and were more powerful than any other. It was these spells that Ravenclaw had lost her sanity to. It was also these spells that formed the basis for all the psychic magic she knew.

The ring had brought him back the first time and so McGonagall suggested it be used as an artifact. Harry carved four sigils in the ring for the four people loyal to him in his life and imbued them with spells from the tome. Each sigil summoned an important memory linking the one before it and covering everything that had happened in between. The memory always began with the face of the person it was dedicated to. Now whenever he lost his memory it would return to him if he touched the ring to his temple and saw the face of one of the four who sacrificed their lives for him.

Now when the venom surged he would still be in pain but when it withdrew it would not take memory of his self for long. The only side affect was that the memories summoned from the ring always seemed like someone else's and were hazy. As he learned the ninety-nine spells by rote, he was able to recall more, most of which he did not want to. Again he could be found reciting defense spells, or anything that had nothing to do with his past to keep his mind occupied. McGonagall took advantage of his need to distract his mind and continued teaching him and she never had had a more avid student.

For Harry, each waking moment was one form of agony or another. His mind felt like a battlefield of demons with sharp claws gouging deep crevices in his consciousness. He was either lost to memory of his physical tortures in absence of everything else or he would lose memory of near everything and was fighting to remember enough of himself to survive.

Having a memory-spirit that did not tire was his only relief, she would talk to him of anything that occurred to him, it did not matter to either how inane or mundane the subject, it was enough for him that it was something other than the conflicts within his body and mind. He counted days by the times he had slept, it had been a month since he opened the tome and it looked like he had made no progress towards the light in the distance. In fact both McGonagall and he knew they had not crossed even a foot of distance, for every day he would walk and every time he slept he would wake to find himself back where he had been a month ago. He knew the pattern of the cracks in the earth well enough to see them in his mind without having to look at them.

This morning, or the time of the day he had arbitrarily chosen to call morning, Harry Potter sat cross-legged staring out towards the faint light, repeating the spells under his breath. He had learned twelve so far, each one with tongue twisting inflections and magic cast consistently with unwavering intent. It was truly a discipline; the effort required was subtle and drawn out, something Harry was unfamiliar with. However, the fact that the gesture less magic when practiced correctly sent a hum through his thoughts that blanketed everything else kept him determined. In his peripheral vision the specter waited for him with her lessons readied. He was thankful to her, as everything would rush back as soon as he stopped practicing and her lessons and conversation were the only respite.

In the rare moments his mind was peaceful he was proud of his hard earned conjuring skill. In the last month he had learned to conjure food in greater quantity and variety. Enough so that when he would inevitably lose memory of this knowledge there was enough stored in his bag to keep him going. No longer was he close to starvation and if it were not for the harsh conditions he would have gained much more weight than he had on his bones. The tome had saved his life, and he had sworn that this place would not kill him. To that end he would do anything to escape his banishment.

As he ended the twelfth spell that took ten minutes to go through he spun the ring on his hand mentally recalling an image of each person the sigils on the ring were dedicated to. That alone had taken away his doubts of worth and sense of dejection, replaced by a vow to honor their love and sacrifice.

The spell ended in a whisper and he stood quickly hauling his bag on his aching wounded shoulders. Casting verbally he conjured breakfast, a sandwich, and bit into it hurrying as if he were late. In truth, he wanted to make as much headway before he was slowed by the venom's return or his memories slipping.

"Human transfiguration will be our next topic, it is very dangerous and you will have to be careful. I am not here to correct your mistakes if you turn yourself into a toilet seat," the specter began without preamble.

"Ha-ha! Thank you, you are mistaking me for Weasley twins," Harry answered with good humor.

"According to the record you have broken more rules than the Weasley twins, Potter. Though, I admit, your brand of trouble was always more deadly than theirs. How do you feel today?" she asked casually. Where he would never answer such a question honestly before, in their time in the desert he had opened up.

"Fine, I was able to sleep more than usual." He gave a faint smile.

The spectral memory returned to the earlier subject happy with his response. "Shall we begin then? Self transfiguration is the most difficult aspect of human transfiguration, a delicate yet firm control is-"

"Wait," Harry interrupted her. "Have you noticed we keep ending up in the same place?"

"Yes, I did not say anything, you were healing and this place has been relatively safe." Her answer angered him but he knew he had been in no condition to think clearly before, even now it was small periods of time he had to himself.

"There has to be some kind of repelling or befuddling charm in that direction. Maybe a misdirection enchantment," he mused out loud. "If that is then there is no way to get there, unless…" he smiled and turned, facing away from his chosen direction. "When I forget, remind me not to look at the light, and not to turn around, no matter what happens."

And he began walking backwards towards the lit sky but facing away from it.

"I trust you know what you are doing?" McGonagall asked walking facing the right direction by him.

"Don't look!" Harry admonished, and then quickly added 'please' smiling apologetically for his tone. The specter turned and fell in back step with her charge with an audible sigh. "We did a lot research in wards and enchantments that keep people away, it might work." He shrugged and pinched the bridge of his nose. McGonagall recognized the sign.

"You can't hold any longer, focus on my voice and repeat everything," she instructed as she always did at the beginning of her lessons. Harry nodded jerkily, steeling himself for the inevitable and motioned her to begin. The spectral-memory lectured while he listened and attempted to keep the pain from overwhelming him.

For a fortnight he walked backwards hoping it was in the right direction. In that time more and more of his waking hours were spent in grasp of his memories than not and he could recall most of the journey. It was a lucky thing then that he was in control of his mind when his reverse journey came to an abrupt end.

At first he felt a soft resistance on his back which slowly became stronger as he moved backwards. Soon it was like walking through thick foliage. Excited by the possibility of having hit a barrier he rushed back trying to break through it. He fell through on his back with a whoop.

He turned on his stomach and looked up to see a cliff face rising out of the cracked earth hundreds of feet in the air with blackened cave faces carved in the likeness of screaming rictuses. The sight should have been visible from miles. After months of seeing only desert even the ominous cave mouths were welcome. This was before he heard a hissing rattle and felt a sharp point in his back.

The middle point of a trident was thrust at him. Following the point to the holder he saw a creature with the torso of a man, body of a snake below the waist and face of a snake with flared hood. Five others were arrayed in line all with the thin sharp tridents pointed at him. Same scaly skin covered the torso as it did the rest of the body. He stepped back his breath stuck in his throat at the sight of the monsters.

"Outsider!" The one nearest him hissed.

"Only one place this is heading…" Harry muttered to himself.

"Kill all outsiders!" The group behind the six feet tall snake hissed.

"Expelliarmus!" he shouted, prepared for the attack. The trident thrust at him went flying with the reptilian guard and disappeared into the invisible barrier. Two others lunged, slithering quick and powerful and would have made their mark if Harry had not fallen because of his injured leg.

From the ground he cursed and a colorful mess that looked like ink spatter hit one of the snakes on its arm and weapon. It writhed holding its arm and shoulder which shriveled leaving open bleeding sores. The remaining four grouped around him striking his shield in frenzy.

"INFLAMARE!" he harshly cast straight into the face of one of the snakes and rolled away from the other three. He got his feet under him and at once petrified another. The other two formed a ring around him and dodged spells sent at them with amazing speed, then with unspoken plan each attacked his wand hand. He shielded himself and they fell against his shield hissing angrily.

"Stop! I don't want to fight, I just want to know where I am," Harry tried, knowing he could lose memory at any moment and in the middle of this fight that would cost him his life. The two remaining suddenly stopped and rose to their heights.

"You speak the tongue!" one hissed, cluing Harry that he was speaking parseltongue.

"Yeah, parseltongue, I speak it, where is this place?"

"Welcome to the gate to the Damned Cavern speaker, come with us," the snake bowed laying its weapon on the ground followed by the other. Harry took this as a good sign and dropped his shield staying alert.

That was his mistake; the snake with the withered arm struck him from behind sinking its claws in his hamstrings. Harry screamed falling to his knees and shoved the point of his wand in the eye of his attacker. The snake's head burst from the silently cast spell.

Harry turned but not quick enough, like lightning the snake speaking to him was coiled around him, one other grabbed his wand arm and earned a spike through its middle for being foolish enough. Their leader returned from behind the barrier and brought down his thin trident like a baton and crushed Harry's child hand. The wand fell from his hand and he screamed in rage and pain.

The snake tightened the coils around the small boy flicking its black tongue out.

"Death to all outsiders" it hissed.


	7. Chapter 7

**A.N** Apologies for the very delayed update. The story is alive, I have the plot for it. Just got sidetracked with other projects. I hope you like the new update, a little break for Harry in this, I know a few will appreciate that. Much thanks to Surrarin for his help. Thank you all for the reviews.

**_Recap: _**

"Welcome to the gate to the Damned Cavern speaker, come with us," the snake bowed laying its weapon on the ground followed by the other. Harry took this as a good sign and dropped his shield staying alert.

That was his mistake; the snake with the withered arm struck him from behind sinking its claws in his hamstrings. Harry screamed falling to his knees and shoved the point of his wand in the eye of his attacker. The snake's head burst from the silently cast spell.

Harry turned but not quick enough, like lightning the snake speaking to him was coiled around him, one other grabbed his wand arm and earned a spike through its middle for being foolish enough. Their leader returned from behind the barrier and brought down his thin trident like a baton and crushed Harry's child hand. The wand fell from his hand and he screamed in rage and pain.

The snake tightened the coils around the small boy flicking its black tongue out.

"Death to all outsiders" it hissed.

**Salvation**  


In that moment when the final end was upon him again, he found that instinctual desire to live and be, once more. It essentially loathsome coming so far and dying. With that basic instinct resurging, he attacked with the only weapon he had; he bit the neck of the man-snake guard. Such was his desperation that he broke the scaly skin right away. He focused every beat of his being in biting down as hard as he could and tore at the creature's throat. The reptilian guard let out a warbling scream but squeezed harder with his coiling body, unwilling to be beat by the weaker being.

When the dark spots in front of Harry's eyes began to become blankets of impending oblivion and he no longer cared for the rotten taste of the snake's blood in his mouth, the guard finally let go before Harry gave up. It uncoiled just as flashing quick as it had when it had wrapped itself around him.

Falling, Harry rolled pathetically, keeping his broken hand tucked in and wincing from the pain of the punctured hamstrings. He was on his back and looking for whatever was going to come at him next.

Rocks dug into his back and the rictuses of the black caves loomed over him, as if waiting to devour him like a small morsel. Right then he was happy enough just to be able to breathe; though, it hurt because of his chest being suddenly squeezed and expanded like a morbid accordion by the man-snake.

The ever blank sky filled his vision; he coughed weakly and waited for the inevitable attack. Instead he heard a cacophony of hisses and a loud smacking sound like skin on skin; some thing had hit another. The hissing argument was so quick he did not catch it. Then an entirely strange and weird thing happened, a coarse hand with sharp nails that pricked his skin grasped the back of his neck gently. It was as if the gesture was an alien thing for the owner of the hand, and then the hand helped him sit.

"Human?" The questioning voice was feminine, though spoken in parseltongue. Purple snake eyes in a human female face blinked wonderingly at him. Even the strange eyes, but on a human face were welcome to him and despite himself he wearily smiled at her.

"No human walks in our land alive, my Queen," the snake-guard hissed sounding surprised.

"There is one here," she said, and Harry saw her forked tongue play at her human teeth. Frowning, he drew back from her and her full form became visible. Straight brown hair fell off her pale oval face, which made her purple eyes only look that much bigger and striking. Tiny, needle-point canines pricked the full chocolate lips curved in an anticipatory smile.

She moved back from him, leaving him propped on his elbows and staring at her. Below the face was a human female torso, tapering off into a winding snake body with diamond black and purple pattern scales. The long hair only barely covered her human breasts and for a very long moment he just stared.

"He is beautiful," she said, winding around in a circle. He dragged himself further, stifling the groan of agony from his broken hand and wounded legs; no longer finding her human face welcome and attractive.

"What are you?" He hissed with curiosity. She stopped in her motion and cocked an ear. He took the time to stand to his shaking legs, and saw the guard behind her nursing his wounded neck.

"Say something again," she hissed in a whisper, eagerly. For a second he was speechless and looked around seeing the rolling cracked earth in one direction, and the gigantic cliff face on the other, there was no way that he could escape easily.

"Hello," he said tentatively, hoping for the best.

"Say something more," she demanded even more eagerly, winding quick up to him. She was in front of him again, holding his face up in a way which for her may have been delicate, but he had to tilt his head up uncomfortably so her nails didn't pierce his throat.

"Nice to meet you, can you tell me where I am?" He asked, not trusting what the man-snake guards had told him before.

"Such an amusing accent, so adorable," she cooed as much as one with a snake tongue could. It sent cold shivers down Harry's back, and he gulped reflexively. "You are in my domain human."

The guard Harry had bitten slithered up to her, holding his neck. "Death to all outsiders, my Queen," he said.

She kept her eyes on Harry, resting his face in one rough, long hand. She took away her other hand slowly but then in a whip like motion threw it back ripping out the throat of the guard who had spoken to her.

For one frozen second his head flapped to the side, half severed, before he fell to the rocky earth. In her hand she held bloodied mess of whatever made up these creatures.

"Eat human," she offered, waving her hand to the body on the ground, leading him with his face where she held him carefully to her gently.

His stomach growled and he was stunned by his body reacting that way. He shook his head trying dispelling the morbid attraction to the bleeding fiend's flesh. How will it taste? He wondered. The black and white blood trickled out, mesmerizing him, its stench was heady and he didn't even realize that it was his own blood loss making him dizzy.

Soon he lost memory of his current self. Scratching pain in the corner of his eyes pulsed, purple tears of the venom in him fell to the rocky earth, and he forgot who he was again; reverting back to the memory and mind of some younger version of himself.

It was him young enough that the sight of the being out of a horror tale had him trembling wide eyed. The purple eyed Queen traced the line of purple tears on the boy's face and smiled another strange, eager smile, and led him into the caves.

* * *

****

**_The Next Morning_**

Grains of sand carried by hot wind brushed his face and he was instantly awake, instinctive fear of the red sand storms of the desert upon him. He jerked, trying to stuff his hand in his pocket for his wand but cried out when the broken hand moved. At once he felt himself lifted, and saw vibrant purple diamond patterned coils curl around him. He moaned against the pain in both his legs and felt the dried blood crusted on him.

The snake coils moved him sideways into the cave, from the edge where he was laying. Soon the face of he Queen became apparent, and she put her arms around him in a maternal manner. All the while her snake body slithered over and under him in some frightening sort of caress.

He did not recognize her face, did not know where he was. But the spells he had been learning helped him remember enough to use the ring. Hesitantly, he brought it to his temple and four quick flashes of the faces of those he had dedicated the sigils to appeared in his mind. On their heels rushed the memories stored in the ring, and brought him back to the mentality of his older self. He instantly calmed against the weird caress of the snake-woman's coils, and stared without fear in her human face with purple snake eyes.

"Are you afraid of the old bitch of the desert? You survived her storms, no creature crosses the desert without her permission," her sibilant voice washed over him hypnotically. "But you are crippled, and might die soon," she spoke to herself, tracing his face with her long, sharp-nailed fingers. He felt his blood run cold in the humid cave, and suddenly felt short-breathed. Turning in her suffocating grasp he looked out of the mouth of the cave to see the desert of cracked earth disappearing into black horizon.

"I need a healer," he whispered, and the snake-woman liquidly bent forward, pressing his face to her ear.

"What tongue is this, human speak is it? What did you say?" she asked excitedly. Harry felt the urge to sneeze because of the hair tickling his face.

"Yes, it is human speak. I said I need a healer," he hissed back in parseltongue and heard her draw her breath sharp.

"Say something more," she hissed urgently, with the same excitement when he met her. He rolled his eyes, thinking of how much amusement she was getting from him talking.

"Healing?" she whipped back, as if she hadn't asked him to say something more. "Healing?" she hissed the word, again and again. "There is no such thing on the borders of the Abyss, human."

Harry felt a vague sense of disappointment but his last months in this bleak place had hardened him further and in fact he felt he would have been suspicious of any healer of her kind, if only he knew what was going on. At the moment he had taken heart in the fact that whatever this creature she was not his enemy.

The cave was nothing special, just like any other cave, but high in the cliff face that he had seen outside, the view only more depressing because there was nothing to see. 'Borders of the Abyss' she'd called this place, he wondered. But idle thoughts soon left him, and he knew he had to heal.

"My wand, I can heal myself," he spoke to her in parseltongue, and she smiled at his voice, focused on his lips. Harry kept his gaze firmly on her face and away from her naked breasts against which his side was pressed to.

"You need flesh and blood, human. You will die soon, a last hunt before you die then." She slithered forward in a sudden motion, and the younger self of Harry balked at her size and sinewy strength as she carried him into the depth of the cave and into darkness.

There was a tunnel she was going through from what he could tell, and on her way he saw her pick his bag from the wall-side. In a few minutes he began to see other dark shapes join them in the tunnel, much smaller than her, but from the sounds also snake like.

"The Minotaur Raj attacks my lands, human. You will eat him, my gift to you and perhaps his heart will give you life." She hissed, her voice betraying her lust for battle. Harry felt pain build up in the corners of his eyes and knew a second before he passed out from the blood loss and pain that he was going to lose memory again.

The Queen of these creatures heeded his unconscious state none, and continued on out to meet whoever the Minotaur Raj was.

* * *

**_Several Hours Later…_**

Harry awoke to the sounds of roars and vicious hisses, with memory of his current self. He was lying on his side and could feel numbness in his hands and legs, his tongue was dry. Opening his eyes blearily he looked at the world skewed from his angle and saw the Queen he had met after his confrontation with the first sentient beings in months, hammer her hand into the chest of what looked like a bull…but he noticed the bull had large human like arms knotted with muscles.

"Huh?" He muttered unintelligently. He watched the snake queen with the human torso plunge her hands up to her wrists into the chest of the bull creature and open it up with a cracking wet sound. His eyes widened at the blood pouring out around her hands, even from afar. She seemed to be rummaging inside for something.

The sight made him try to move and all he managed was to roll from his side onto his stomach. Grunting he saw his bag not too far from him, the hair of his dead older body sticking out of the top and next to it his ash wand. With his good hand he pulled the wand to himself and held it under him.

When he looked back to the Queen, she was suddenly next to him, looming far above him. Blood rained down on him from her hands that were soaked in it up to her elbows. She held a large fleshy thing to her chest from which the blood was falling. It had covered her naked breasts and the ends of her hair. Even if he wanted to Harry couldn't look away, having no idea what she was planning, and the sight of her covered in blood had him transfixed.

"Before your death beautiful human, feed on the heart of my enemy." She offered the huge fleshy thing that Harry now knew to be the heart of the bull creature. Again he felt his body react in terrible hunger and the smell of blood raining down on him and covering the form of the Queen mesmerized him.

With a haze in his mind he raised his wand at the lowered heart and levitated it away from the Queen. In the next instance he blasted it with fire cooking it in a flash, and gave into his body's need. The Queen slithered around him easing him into her coils and holding him to her bloody bosom while he held the large cooked heart in his good hand, eyeing it with desire.

* * *

The roasted heart could have used some salt, maybe a dash of vinegar, but right then even the faint decaying taste of it was heavenly, he reckoned to himself. Sitting cross legged on the cracked earth he chewed the large organ with gusto; while the Queen slithered around him with her long powerful body. She dipped her hand in the cavity of the Minotaur Raja, bringing her cupped hand out brimming with steaming blood. In a rapid movement she grabbed Harry's head and shoved his mouth into her palm. 

"Drink my kill," she hissed in parseltongue in his ear, and he did. She carried him on the turns of her body to the carcass and fed him more and more hot blood with her cupped hand. It slid down his throat like burning oil, heating his insides out. The wounds left by the phoenix talons in his shoulders, suddenly burned anew, as did the cuts and punctures left by other creatures.

His middle healed where the demonic werewolf had thrust his hand in and ripped his stomach. The sensation felt like everything inside him was at a pleasant simmer. The wet blood of the Minotaur on his nose sent the rank smell of decay into his lungs and it was as if it were the very thing to bring men to life. He smelled deeply, drank constantly and in between chewed the heart sitting like a distorted melon in his hands.

And then came the time that he fed so animalisticaly that he did not even realize that the Queen had lifted him over the carcass and dipped his head in its chest cavity. She ran her sharp nails in his scalp and down the side of his neck where it was blood stained – for once not by his own. Harry did not notice, nor cared, to him it felt like being born – he was coming to life.

The near-boiling ichor of the fallen Minotaur was a forbidden tonic that destroyed any weariness, any pain that he had suffered. Only the marks of the phoenix talons pierced in his shoulders burned against it, but even their phantom pain was no match for the literal blood lust. Harry resisted the Queen's hold on his head, and jerked back, letting out a scream of joy to the blank sky. The Queen's army fell back stunned by the sound of laughter in their midst.

"The Human lives!" The Queen hissed passionately. "Follow him. Destroy them all, the human is my prince. Follow him!" She handed Harry the trident of one of her guards, and propelled him with her tail into the hoard of her enemies he hadn't seen. He flew laughing with the weapon raised in one hand and his wand in the other; a small body of no physical consequence canon balled into the towering army of Minotaurs.

Intoxicated with his first meal, he saw every one of them holding blood that was for his drinking, for his empowering. The first Minotaur that turned to him let out a bleating roar of battle cry got the trident buried in his stomach. Though, Harry could not pull it back out, he was after all only a small child, even if he was demonically charged. The ash wand drew its second kill, and a third, he cast no dark magic, he was too happy to summon the emotion for the truly dark magic. Only spells of that nature that did not require emotion to cast he spelled against the pressing monsters. Soon he heard the spitting hisses of the Queen's army around him, who on her orders had followed him into battle. Not that he led; he was too enamored by his own killing to care what happened to them.

Cutting hexes followed explosive curses, where one ended another already was leaving the wand tip.

And he ran.

…Through their files and under their legs, in a sprint of death, the race would end when he broke through to their flank.

So he ran, high on blood lust, fuelled by demon flesh. The slithering army followed him, drawing the blades of the minotaurs away from him.

They ranked against him, tightening the spaces between themselves and crouched so he could not duck under their legs. Harry came to a halt and like the cave of Voldemort's horcrux he conjured a whip of fire and spun on his heel, keeping his arm stretched out like the wing of a fan.

The fiery whip blazed in the darkness and severed both those who were now his army and those that were his enemy. They roared in fright, hissed in fear, running, slithering away. In their faces the spinning dervish child continued his twisting dance to a non existent rhythm.

He made himself the center of the wheel and enthralled by the new sensations in himself kept spinning. The length of the whip grew as he delved more and more into the demon flesh's effect.

* * *

_A short period of time passes..._

In half an hour they routed the horde and there was silence in the land. The up right snakes lay cut up amongst the minotaur as did the minotaur amongst the snakes, but there were more of the snake men alive. The minotaurs had retreated from wherever they had come, Harry knew not.

And now there was silence and only one creature spoiled the bodies of the dead - the human.

They stood watching his head dipping on another body tearing away flesh, now uncooked, every now and then screaming in jubilation to the sky and sending unknown fear through them. Joyous laughter and fire were not things seen on the edge of the Abyss.

There was nothing but blood and meat in front of him and on his mind. Some far away part of him niggled that this was not right, that it had taken him over. Finally when the sound of his own teeth tearing at resisting meat, and the numbing taste of the boiling blood got too much to bear he threw himself back with all his strength.

He lay on the earth amongst the dead; breathing shallow and fast, feeling the demonic blood simmer through his body. It was the best he had felt in, what seemed an age, and that frightened him. Now when he had finally stopped and begun to think about it slight panic gripped him at what he had done…and how incredibly satisfying and powerful it still felt.

Demon's ichor drenched the front of his clothes to his knees, his ash wand was stained as well and he looked at it stunned. Standing up he wiped his blood washed hands and wand on his cloak, though it did little to help his appearance. The Queen's standing army stood in a ring far from him, circling the fallen bodies and their tridents were turned inside to him. One broke away from the circle throwing its weapon down, in what Harry could only guess was fear. It was as if he could sense that the creature had already lost to him and he wanted to run after it and kill it.

He could not tell anything of what they were thinking from their faces, being how they were snake like and too strange, but the Queen who had a woman's body and face above her waist was easier to read; and she seemed like she was on the edge of some decision. He tightened the hand on the ash wand that was dripping blood still, thinking she could be ordering her minions to attack him any moment.

The strength and high from feeding on minotaur flesh and blood had sharpened his mind and he was ready to apparate away. Except the Queen was the first sentient being he had met here who hadn't tried to kill him or eat him, and had answered at least where he was. So desolate was this place he had been banished to for what was to his reckoning at least months that even her strange company was attractive, and more than that what she knew of this place and how he could leave.

In a slow ever shortening circle she wound towards him, coming closer and closer until she was upon him. He looked up to her, her head must have been as high as his old friend Hagrid, and her hair fell so that they brushed the top of his head. She wound around him, picking him up in her coils as she had been wont to do since he had met her. She held him delicately and Harry felt confident that if she meant to kill him she would have crushed him with her body already. The blood on his clothes wiped off on her purple and black diamond scales and she looked in his eyes for a long time, Harry did his best to not look away from the human, yet not, face of the woman-snake.

"Fire," she hissed and he could feel her loathing for it. "Laughter," she hissed and shudder went through her coils making it uncomfortable to be in her grip then, but he could hardly do anything against a creature her size without angering her. "You brought it to the banished lands," she accused and whipped around looking at the battle field. He held on, feeling dizzy by the sudden side to side motions. "You will lead my armies, human, you will conquer the edge of the Abyss and I will become the one who speaks for the Abyss and the one who guards the Cavern of the Damned. The old bitch of the desert let you pass, and with you my army will pass back." She sounded excited, and the blood lust in him responded to it. "Now speak to me human," she demanded eagerly and carried him off the battlefield leaving the dead rotting.

Harry sighed in relief and hoped he could talk to McGonagall soon, indeed, he was also anxious to practice Rowena's disciplines, lest he lose his memory again. With the Queen it could mean death easily to wake up as his twelve year old self and react to her with the mind of the child hero.

* * *

**_Several Months Later…_**

Heat, thick and humid enveloped him. He awoke drawing a desperate breath to fill his lungs, feeling like he was suffocating. Dry air at the edge of the cave relieved him, he crawled out of the coils of the Queen; she had once again curled around him as if he were her favorite possession.

Harry had quite intelligently done nothing to disabuse her of the notion that he was _hers._ Guiltily he knew that it wasn't just out of a practical sense of survival but also it was nice having a powerful woman guarding him. After all the near death run-ins since had come back in time it was a change to have someone looking after him so jealously.

She was demanding, often caressing him in her sinuous body and wanting him to speak to her. She would brush her needle sharp canines on his face and urge him with her chocolate lips again and again to talk and tell her of things from Earth. He had quickly suppressed his reaction of disgust to when she would flick him with her forked tongue, and his embarrassment when she would settle him against her bare breasts.

No, Harry did not want to do anything to alienate the Queen. So he let her hold him, to curl around him in her sleep and spoke to her of his life. The last had been difficult as he would often lose his memory and have to cast the spells to remember what had happened, and many times the Queen would be dealing with a Harry Potter who had no clue of who she was. But all in all he had become used to her ministration and drew comfort from it, though always thinking he was doing it to stay safe.

Harry settled down by the mouth of the cave looking out at the expanse of the broken desert. He pulled his knees up and rested his back; relaxing as well as he could and began casting the magic of Rowena Ravenclaw's discipline. The Queen stirred and he heard her body shuffling over the rock floor, he began reciting the spells with their impossible pronunciations aloud; the Queen always liked to hear human speech, it was a strange thrill for her.

As long as he studied the Queen would leave him alone, happy to watch him from a languorous position. In half an hour he brought to close the casting of the twelve of ninety-nine spells of the discipline and began his study of the thirteenth. The thirteenth had been the most difficult of them all, requiring him to keep the tome open with his hand in it and to chant the spells that couldn't be read but where whispered into his ear by a gentle but didactic voice.

Emptying his mind he listened to the voice and repeated after her. It had been two months from his reckoning since he had met the Queen, two months she had taught him the ways of the banished lands. Two month she had prepared him to lead her armies out of her domain and crush the Minotaur Raj for their kingdom's insult to hers. It was his test, and he would not fail it. There was a dark smile on his face.

"Hmm, I haven't had steak in a long time." He licked his lips.

* * *

Please R&R, Thankyou. 


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